LEGEND 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LJ 

LONDON  •   BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 
TORONTO 


LEGEND 


BY 

CLEMENCE  DANE 

Author  of  "Regiment  of  Women"  and 
"First  the  Blade" 


U3eto  gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1920 

All  right*  reserved 


COPTBIGHT,  1920 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  January,  1920. 


r 


BBETHOTBW,  Op.  87. 


TET 


203G240 


LEGEND 

Messrs.  Mitchell  and  Bent  "will  shortly  issue 
'  The  Life  of  Madala  Grey  '  by  Anita  Serle:  a 
critical  biography  based  largely  on  private  cor- 
respondence and  intimate  personal  knowledge. 

That  was  in  The  Times  a  fortnight  ago.  And 
now  the  reviews  are  beginning  — 

The  Cult  of  Madala  Grey.  .  .  . 

The  Problem  of  Madala  Grey.  .  .  . 

The  Secret  of  Madala  Grey.  .  .  . 

I  wish  they  wouldn't.     Oh,  I  wish  they  wouldn't. 

No  admirer  of  the  late  Madala  Grey's  arresting 
art  can  fail  to  be  absorbed  by  these  intimate  and 
unexpected  revelations  .  .  . 

Delicately,  unerringly,  Miss  Serle  traces  to  its 
source  the  inspiration  of  that  remarkable  writer. 
.  .  .  And  —  this  will  please  Anita  most  of  all  — 

We  ourselves  have  never  joined  in  the  chorus  of 
praise  that,  a  decade  ago,  greeted  the  appearance 
of  '  Eden  Walls  '  and  its  successors,  and  in  our 
opinion  Miss  Serle,  in  her  biographical  enthusiasm, 
uses  the  word  genius  a  little  too  often  and  too 
easily.  Madala  Grey  has  yet  to  be  tried  by  that 
subtlest  of  literary  critics,  the  Man  with  the 
Scythe.  But  whether  or  not  we  agree  with  Miss 
Serle's  estimate  of  her  heroine,  there  can  be  no 
1 


LEGEND 

two  questions  as  to  the  literary  value  of  the.  f  Life ' 
itself.  It  definitely  places  Miss  Serle  among  the 
Boswells,  and  as  we  close  its  fascinating  pages  we 
find  ourselves  wondering  whether  our  grandchil- 
dren will  remember  Miss  Serle  as  the  biographer  of 
Madala  Grey,  or  Madala  Grey  as  the  subject  mat- 
ter merely,  of  a  chronicle  that  has  become  a  classic. 

That  is  to  say  —  La  revne  est  morte.  Vive  la 
reine!  Anita  will  certainly  be  pleased.  Well,  I 
suppose  she's  got  what  she  wants,  what  she's  always 
wanted.  She  isn't  a  woman  to  change.  The  new 
portrait  in  the  Bookman  might  have  been  taken 
when  I  knew  her:  the  mouth's  a  trifle  harder,  the 
hair  a  trifle  greyer;  but  no  real  change.  But  it 
amuses  me  that  there  should  be  her  portrait  in  all 
the  papers,  and  none  of  Madala  Grey ;  not  even  in 
the  Life  itself.  I  can  hear  Anita's  regretful  ex- 
planations in  her  soft,  convincing  voice.  She  will 
make  a  useful  little  paragraph  out  of  it  — 

Miss  Serle,  whose  '  Life  of  Madala  Grey  '  is 
causing  no  small  stir  in  literary  circles,  tells  us  that 
the  brilliant  novelist  had  so  great  a  dislike  of  be- 
ing photographed  that  there  is  no  record  of  her 
features  in  existence.  An  odd  foible  m  one  who, 
in  our  own  recollection,  was  not  only  a  popular 
writer  but  a  strikingly  beautiful  woman. 

And  yet,  from  her  heavy,  solitary  frame  (we 

have  no  other  pictures  in  our  den)  that  *  beautiful 

woman,'  with  her  flowered  scarf  and  her  handful 

of  cowslips,  is  looking  down  at  this  moment  at 

2 


LEGEND 

me  —  at  me,  and  the  press  cuttings,  and  The 
Times,  and  Anita's  hateful  book.  And  she  says, 
unmistakably  — *  Does  it  matter?  What  does  it 
matter?  '  laughing  a  little  as  she  says  it. 

Then  I  laugh  too,  because  Anita  knows  all  about 
the  portrait. 

After  all,  does  it  matter?  Does  it  matter  what 
Anita  says  and  does  and  writes  ?  And  why  should 
I  of  all  people  grudge  Anita  her  success?  Hon- 
estly, I  don't.  And  I  don't  doubt  that  the  book 
is  well  written :  not  that  I  shall  read  it.  There's 
no  need:  I  know  exactly  what  she  will  have  writ- 
ten: I  know  how  convincing  it  will  be.  But  it 
won't  be  true.  It  won't  be  Madala  Grey. 

Of  course  Anita  would  say  — '  My  dear  Jenny, 
what  do  you  know  about  it?  You  never  even  met 
her.  You  heard  us,  her  friends,  her  intimates, 
talking  about  her  for  —  how  long?  An  hour? 
Two  hours  ?  And  on  the  strength  of  that  —  that 
eaves-dropping  five  years  ago  '  (I  can  hear  the  nip 
in  her  voice  still)  *  you  are  so  amusing  as  to  chal- 
lenge my  personal  knowledge  of  my  dearest  friend. 
Possibly  you  contemplate  writing  the  story  of 
Madala  Grey  yourself?  If  so,  pray  send  me  a 
copy.'  And  then  the  swish  of  her  skirt.  She  al- 
ways wore  trains  in  those  days,  and  she  always 
glided  away  before  one  could  answer. 

But  I  could  answer.  I  remember  that  evening 
so  well.  I  don't  believe  I've  forgotten  a  word  or 
a  movement,  and  if  I  could  only  write  it  down, 
3 


LEGEND 

those  two  hours  would  tell,  as  Anita's  book  never 
will,  the  story  of  Madala  Grey. 

I  ought  to  be  able  to  write ;  because  Anita  is  my 
mother's  cousin ;  though  I  never  saw  her  till  I  was 
eighteen. 

Mother  died  when  I  was  eighteen. 

If  she  had  not  been  ill  so  long  it  would  have  been 
harder.  As  it  was  —  but  there's  no  use  in  writing 
down  that  black  time.  Afterwards  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do.  The  pension  had  stopped,  of  course. 
I'd  managed  to  teach  myself  typing,  though 
Mother  couldn't  be  left  much;  but  I  didn't  know 
shorthand,  and  I  couldn't  get  work,  and  my  money 
was  dwindling,  and  I  was  getting  scared.  I  was 
ready  to  worship  Anita  when  her  letter  came. 
She  was  sorry  about  Mother  and  she  wanted  a 
secretary.  If  I  could  type  I  could  come. 

I  remember  how  excited  I  was.  I'd  always 
lived  in  such  a  tiny  place  and  we  couldn't  afford 
Mudie's.  To  go  to  London,  and  meet  interesting 
people,  and  live  with  a  real  writer,  seemed  too 
good  to  be  true.  And  it  helped  that  Anita  and  her 
mother  were  relations.  Mother  used  to  stay  with 
Great-aunt  Serle  when  she  was  little.  Somehow 
that  made  things  easier  to  me  when  I  was  missing 
Mother  more  than  usual. 

In  the  end,  after  all  those  expectations,  I  was 

only  three  weeks  with  Anita.     They  were  a  queer 

three  weeks.     I  was  afraid  of  her.     She  was  one 

of  those  people  who  make  you  feel  guilty.     But 

4 


LEGEND 

she  was  kind  to  me.  I  typed  most  of  the  day,  for 
she  was  a  fluent  worker  and  never  spared  either 
of  us ;  but  she  took  me  to  the  theatre  once,  and  I 
used  to  pour  out  when  interesting  people  came  to 
tea.  In  the  first  fortnight  I  met  nine  novelists  and 
a  poet ;  but  I  never  found  out  who  they  were,  be- 
cause they  all  called  each  other  by  their  Christian 
names  and  you  couldn't  ask  Anita  questions.  She 
had  such  a  way  of  asking  you  why  you  asked. 
She  used  to  glide  about  the  room  in  a  cloud  of 
chiffon  and  cigarette  smoke  —  she  had  half-shut 
pale  eyes  just  the  colour  of  the  smoke  —  and  pour 
out  a  stream  of  beautiful  English  in  a  pure  cool 
voice ;  but  if  they  interrupted  her  she  used  to 
stiffen  and  stop  dead  and  in  a  minute  she  had 
glided  away  and  begun  to  talk  to  someone  else. 
Old  Mrs.  Serle  used  to  sit  in  a  corner  and  knit. 
She  never  dropped  a  stitch;  but  she  always  had 
her  eyes  on  Anita.  She  was  different  from  the 
rest  of  my  people.  She  had  an  accent,  not  cockney 
exactly,  but  odd.  She  had  had  a  hard  life,  I  be- 
lieve. Mother  said  of  her  once  that  her  courage 
made  up  for  everything.  But  she  never  told  me 
what  the  everything  was.  Great-aunt's  memory 
was  shaky.  One  day  she  would  scarcely  know 
you,  and  another  day  she  would  be  sensible  and 
kind,  very  kind.  She  liked  parties.  People  used 
to  come  and  talk  to  her  because  she  made  them 
laugh;  but  every  now  and  then,  when  Anita  was 
being  brilliant  about  something,  she  would  put  up 
5 


LEGEND 

her  long  gnarled  finger  and  say  — *  Hush !  Listen 
to  my  daughter ! '  and  her  eyes  would  twinkle. 
But  I  never  knew  if  she  were  proud  of  her  or 
not. 

Everybody  said  that  Anita  was  brilliant.  She 
could  take  a  book  to  pieces  so  that  you  saw  every 
good  bit  and  every  bad  bit  separated  away  into  lit- 
tle compartments.  But  she  spoiled  things  for  you, 
books  and  people,  at  least  she  did  for  me.  She 
sneered.  She  said  of  the  Baxter  girl  once,  for 
instance  — *  She's  really  too  tactful.  If  you  go  to 
tea  with  her  you  are  sure  to  be  introduced  to  your 
oldest  friend.'  And  again  — *  She  always  likes  the 
right  people  for  the  wrong  reasons.' 

Of  course  one  knows  what  she  meant,  but  I  liked 
the  Baxter  girl  all  the  same.  Beryl  Baxter  —  but 
everyone  called  her  the  Baxter  girl.  She  was 
kind  to  me  because  I  was  Anita's  cousin,  and  she 
used  to  talk  to  me  when  Anita  wasn't  in  the  mood 
for  her.  She  asked  me  to  call  her  *  Beryl '  almost 
at  once.  Anita  used  to  be  awfully  rude  to  her 
sometimes,  and  then  again  she  would  have  her  to 
supper  and  spend  an  evening  going  through  her 
MSS.  and  I  could  tell  that  she  was  giving  her  valu- 
able help.  The  Baxter  girl  used  to  listen  and 
agree  so  eagerly  and  take  it  away  to  re-write.  I 
thought  she  was  dreadfully  grateful.  I  hated  to 
hear  her.  And  when  she  was  gone  Anita  would 
lean  back  in  her  chair  with  a  dead  look  on  her 
face  and  say  — 

6 


LEGEND 

"  God  help  her  readers !  Jenny,  open  the  win- 
dow. That  girl  reeks  of  patchouli."  And  then 
— "  Why  do  I  waste  my  time  ?  " 

And  Great-aunt  Serle  in  her  corner  would 
chuckle  and  poke  and  mutter,  but  not  loud  — 

"  Why  does  she  waste  her  time  ?  Listen  to  my 
daughter ! " 

The  next  time  the  Baxter  girl  came  Anita  would 
hardly  speak  to  her. 

The  Baxter  girl  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  matter  of 
course.  But  once  she  said  to  me,  with  a  look  on 
her  face  as  if  she  were  defending  herself  — 

"  Ah  —  but  you  don't  write.  You're  not  keen. 
You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  be  in  the  set." 

"  But  such  heaps  of  people  come  to  see  Anita," 
I  said,  "  people  she  hardly  knows." 

"  They're  only  the  fringes,"  said  the  Baxter  girl 
complacently.  "  They're  not  in  the  Grey  set. 
They  don't  come  to  the  Nights.  At  least,  only 
a  few.  Jasper  Flood,  of  course  —  you've  met  him, 
haven't  you  ?  —  and  Lila  Howe  —  Masquerade, 
you  know,  and  Sir  Fortinbras."  The  Baxter  girl 
always  ticketed  everyone  she  mentioned.  "  And 
the  Whitneys.  She  used  to  stay  with  the  Whit- 
neys.  And  Roy  Huth.  And  of  course  Kent 
Rehan." 

"KentRehan?" 

"  The  Kent  Rehan,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

Then  I  remembered.  The  vicar's  wife  always 
sent  Mother  the  Academy  catalogue  after  she  had 
7 


LEGEND 

been  up  to  town.  I  used  to  cut  out  the  pictures  I 
liked,  and  I  liked  Kent  Rehan's.  They  had  wind 
blowing  through  them,  and  sunshine,  and  jolly 
blobs  that  I  knew  must  be  raw  colour,  and  always 
the  same  woman.  But  you  could  never  see  her 
face,  only  a  cheek  curve  or  a  shoulder  line.  They 
were  in  the  catalogue  every  year,  and  so  I  told  the 
Baxter  girl.  She  laughed. 

"  Yes,  he's  always  on  the  line.  Anita  says  that's 
the  worst  she  knows  of  him.  And  of  course  the 

veiled  lady "  she  laughed  again,  knowingly, 

"  But  there  is  one  full  face,  I  believe.  The  Spring 
Song  he  calls  it.  But  it's  never  been  shown. 
Anita's  seen  it.  She  told  me.  He  keeps  it  locked 
away  in  his  studio.  They  say  he's  in  love  with 
her." 

"With  whom?" 

"  Madala  Grey,  of  course." 

I  said- 

"Who  is  Madala  Grey?" 

The  Baxter  girl  had  sunk  into  the  cushions  un- 
til she  was  prone.  I  had  been  wondering  with 
the  bit  of  mind  that  wasn't  listening  what  the  peo- 
ple at  home  would  have  said  to  her,  with  her 
cobweb  stockings  (it  was  November)  and  her  col- 
oured combs  and  her  sprawl.  It  was  a  relief  to 
see  her  sit  up  suddenly. 

"  *  Who's  Madala  Grey ! '  "  Her  mouth  stayed 
open  after  she'd  finished  the  sentence. 

"Yes,"  I  said.     "Who  is  she?" 
8 


LEGEND 

"  You  mean  to  say  you've  never  heard  of  Madala 
Grey?  You've  never  read  Eden  Walls?  Is  there 
anyone  in  England  who  hasn't  read  Eden  Walls?  " 

"  Heaps,"  I  said.  She  annoyed  me.  She  — 
they  —  they  all  thought  me  a  fool  at  Anita's. 

The  Baxter  girl  sighed  luxuriously. 

"  My  word,  I  envy  you !  I  wish  I  was  reading 
Eden  Walls  for  the  first  time  —  or  Ploughed 
Fields.  I  don't  care  so  much  about  The  Resting- 
place."  She  laughed.  "  At  least  —  one's  not 
supposed  to  care  about  The  Resting-place,  you 
know.  It's  as  much  as  one's  life's  worth  —  one's 
literary  life." 

"What's  wrong  with  it?" 

"  Sentimental.  Anita  says  so.  She  says  she 
doesn't  know  what  happened  to  her  over  The 
Resting-place" 

"  I  like  the  title,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  so  do  I.     And  I  love  the  opening  where 

Oh,  but  you  haven't  read  it.     And  you're 

Anita's    cousin!     What    a    comedy!     Just    like 
Anita,  though,  not  to  speak  of  her." 

"Why?     Doesn't  Anita  like  her?  " 

The  Baxter  girl  was  flat  on  the  cushions  again. 
She  looked  at  me  with  those  furtive  eyes  that 
always  so  strangely  qualified  her  garrulity. 

"  Are  you  shrewd?     Or  was  that  chance?  " 

"What?" 

"  '  Doesn't  Anita  like  her?  '  " 

"Doesn't  she  then?" 
9 


LEGEND 

"  Ah,  now  you're  asking !  Officially,  very  much. 
Too  much,  /  should  say.  And  too  much  is  just 
the  same  as  the  other  thing,  I  think.  Would  you 
like  Anita  for  your  bosom  friend?  " 

Naturally  I  said  — 

"Anita's  been  very  kind  to  me."  Anita's  my 
cousin,  after  all.  I  didn't  like  the  Baxter  girl's 
tone. 

"  Oh,  she's  been  kind  to  me."  The  Baxter  girl 
caught  me  up  quickly.  She  was  like  a  sensitive 
plant  for  all  her  crudity.  "  Oh,  I  admire  Anita. 
She's  the  finest  judge  of  style  in  England.  Jasper 
Flood  says  so.  You  mustn't  think  I  say  a  word 
against  Anita.  Very  kind  to  me  she's  been." 
Then,  innocently,  but  her  eyes  were  flickering  again 
— "  She  was  kind  to  Madala  too,  till " 

"Well?  "I  demanded. 

"  Till  Madala  was  kind  to  her.  Madala's  one 
of  those  big  people.  She'll  never  forget  what  she 
owes  Anita  —  what  Anita  told  her  she  owed  her. 
After  she  made  her  own  name  she  made  Anita's. 
Anita,  being  Anita,  doesn't  forget  that." 

"  How  d'you  mean  —  made  Anita's  name?  " 

"  Well,  look  at  the  people  who  come  here  — 
the  people  who  count.  What  do  you  think  the 
draw  was?  Anita?  Oh  yes,  now.  But  they 
came  first  for  Madala.  Oh,  those  early  days  when 
Eden  Walls  was  just  out!  Of  course  Anita  had 
sense  for  ten.  She  ran  Madala  for  all  she  was 
worth." 

10 


LEGEND 

"  Then  you  do  like  Madala  Grey  ?  " 

"I?"  The  Baxter  girl  looked  at  me  oddly. 
"  She  read  my  book.  She  wrote  to  me.  That's 
why  Anita  took  me  up.  She  let  me  come  to  the 
Nights.  She  started  them,  you  know.  Somebody 
reads  a  story  or  a  poem,  and  then  it's  talk  till  the 
milkman  comes.  Good  times  !  But  now  Madala's 
married  she  doesn't  come  often.  Anita  carries 
on  like  grim  death,  of  course.  But  it's  not  the 
same.  Last  month  it  was  dreary." 

"  Is  it  every  month?  " 

"Yes.  It's  tomorrow  again.  Tomorrow's 
Sunday,  isn't  it?  It'll  amuse  you.  You'll  come, 
of  course,  as  you're  in  the  house." 

"Will  she?  Herself?"  I  found  myself  re- 
producing the  Baxter  girl's  eagerness. 

"  Not  now."  The  common  voice  had  deepened 
queerly.  "She's  very  ill."  She  hesitated. 
"That's  why  I  came  today.  I  thought  Anita 
might  have  heard.  Not  my  business,  of  course, 
but  —  She  made  an  awkward,  violent  gesture 

with  her  hands.  "  Oh,  a  genius  oughtn't  to  marry. 
It's  wicked  waste.  Well,  so  long!  See  you  to- 
morrow night ! " 

She  left  me  abruptly. 

I  found  myself  marking  time,  as  it  were,  all 
through  that  morrow,  as  if  the  evening  were  of 
great  importance.  The  Baxter  girl  was  always 
unsettling,  or  it  may  have  been  Anita's  restlessness 
that  affected  me.  Anita  was  on  edge.  She  was 
11 


LEGEND 

writing,  writing,  all  the  morning.  She  was  at  her 
desk  when  I  came  down.  There  was  a  mass  of 
packets  and  papers  in  front  of  her  and  an  empty 
coffee  cup.  I  believe  she  had  been  writing  all 
night.  She  had  that  white  look  round  her  eyes. 
But  she  didn't  need  any  typing  done.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  she  went  out  and  at  once  Great- 
aunt,  in  her  corner,  put  down  her  knitting  with 
a  little  catch  of  her  breath.  But  she  didn't  talk : 
she  sat  watching  the  door.  I  had  been  half  the 
day  at  the  window,  fascinated  by  the  fog.  I'd 
never  seen  a  London  fog  before.  I  found  my- 
self writing  a  letter  in  my  head  to  Mother  about 
it,  about  the  way  it  would  change  from  black  to 
yellow  and  then  clear  off  to  let  in  daylight  and 
sparrow-talk  and  the  tramp-tramp  of  feet,  and 
then  back  again  to  silence,  and  the  sun  like  a  ball 
that  you  could  reach  up  to  with  your  hand  and 
lold.  I  was  deep  in  my  description  —  and  then,  of 
a  sudden,  I  remembered  that  she  wasn't  there  to 
write  to  any  more.  It  was  so  hard  to  remember 
always  that  she  was  dead.  I  got  up  quickly  and 
went  to  Anita's  shelves  for  a  book.  Great-aunt 
hadn't  noticed  anything.  She  was  still  watching 
the  door. 

The  little  back  room  that  opened  on  to  the  stair- 
case was  lined  to  the  ceiling  with  books,  all  so  tidy 
and  alphabetical.  Anita  lived  for  books,  but  I 
used  to  wonder  why.  She  didn't  love  them.  Her 
books  never  opened  friendlily  at  special  places,  and 
12 


LEGEND 

they  hadn't  the  proper  smell.     I  ran  my  finger 
along  the  '  G's  '  and  pulled  out  Eden  Walls. 

I  began  in  the  middle  of  course.  One  always 
falls  into  the  middle  of  a  real  person's  life,  and  a 
book  is  a  person.  There's  always  time  to  find  out 
their  beginning  afterwards  when  you've  decided  to 
be  friends.  It  isn't  always  worth  while.  But  it 
was  with  Eden  Watts.  I  liked  the  voice  in  which 
the  story  was  being  told.  Soon  I  began  to  feel 
happier.  Then  I  began  to  feel  excited.  It  said 
things  I'd  always  thought,  you  know.  It  was 
extraordinary  that  it  knew  how  I  felt  about  things. 
There's  a  bit  where  the  heroine  comes  to  town  and 
the  streets  scare  her,  because  they  go  on,  and  on, 
and  on,  always  in  straight  lines,  like  a  corridor 
in  a  dream.  Now  how  did  she  know  of  that  dream? 
I  turned  back  to  the  first  page  and  began  to  read 
steadily. 

When  Anita's  voice  jerked  me  back  to  real  life 
it  was  nearly  dark.  She  was  speaking  to  Great- 
aunt  as  she  took  off  her  wraps  — 

"  The  fog's  confusing.  I  had  to  take  a  taxi 
to  the  tube.  A  trunk  call  is  an  endless  busi- 
ness." 

"Well?"  said  Great-aunt. 

"  Nothing  fresh." 

"Did  he  answer?" 

Anita  nodded. 

"Was      he ?     Is      she ?     Did      you 

ask ?     What  did  he  tell  you,  Anita?  " 

13 


LEGEND 

Anita  stabbed  at  her  hat  with  her  long  pins. 
She  was  flushing. 

"  The  usual  details.  He  spares  you  nothing. 
Have  you  had  tea,  Mother?  "  She  rang  the  bell. 

Great-aunt  beat  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair  in  a  feeble,  restless  way.  When  I  brought 
her  tea  she  said  to  me  in  her  confidential  whisper  — 

"  Give  it  to  my  daughter.  She's  tired.  She'U 
tell  us  when  she's  not  so  tired." 

She  settled  herself  again  to  watch;  but  she 
watched  Anita,  not  the  door. 

And  in  a  few  minutes  Anita  did  say,  as  the 
Baxter  girl  had  said  — 

"  She's  very  ill."  And  then  — "  I  always  told 
you  we  ought  to  have  a  telephone.  I  can't  be  run- 
ning out  all  the  evening." 

"Do  they  come  tonight?"  said  Great-aunt 
Serle. 

Anita  answered  her  coldly  — 

"They  do.     Why  not?  " 

Great-aunt  tittered. 

"  Why  not  ?     Why  not  ?     Listen,  little  Jenny !  " 

Anita,  as  usual,  was  quite  patient. 

"  Mother,  you  mustn't  excite  yourself.  Jenny, 
give  Mother  some  more  tea.  What  good  would  it 
do  Madala  to  upset  my  arrangements?  Besides, 
Kent  will  have  the  latest  news.  I  think  you  may 
trust  him."  She  gave  that  little  laugh  that  was 
Great-aunt's  titter  grown  musical.  Then  she 
turned  to  me. 

14 


LEGEND 

"  By  the  way,  Jenny,  I  expect  friends  tonight. 
You  needn't  change,  as  you're  in  mourning. 
You'll  see  to  the  coffee,  please.  We'll  have  the 
door  open  and  the  coffee  in  the  little  room.  You 
might  do  it  now  while  I  dress." 

The  big  drawing-room  was  divided  from  the  little 
outer  room  by  a  curtained  door.  It  was  closed  in 
the  day-time  for  cosiness'  sake,  but  when  it  was 
flung  back  the  room  was  a  splendid  one.  The  small 
room  held  the  books  and  a  chair  or  two,  and  a 
chesterfield  facing  the  door  that  opened  on  to  the 
passage  and  the  narrow  twisting  stairs.  They 
were  so  dark  that  Anita  kept  a  candle  and  matches 
in  the  hall ;  but  one  seldom  troubled  to  light  it. 
It  was  quicker  to  fumble  one's  way.  Anita  used  to 
long  for  electric  light ;  but  she  would  not  install  it. 
Anita  had  good  taste.  The  house  was  old,  and 
old-fashioned  it  should  stay. 

I  fastened  back  the  door  and  re-arranged  the 
furniture,  and  was  sitting  down  to  Eden  Walls 
again  when  Great-aunt  beckoned  me. 

"  Go  and  dress,  my  dear !  " 

"  But  Anita  said "  I  began. 

She  held  me  by  the  wrist,  all  nods  and  smiles  and 
hoarse  whispers. 

"  The  pretty  dress  —  to  show  a  pretty  throat 
—  isn't  there  a  pretty  dress  somewhere?  I  know! 
Put  it  on.  Put  it  on.  What  a  white  throat! 
I've  a  necklace  somewhere  —  but  then  Anita  would 
know.  Mustn't  tell  Anita !  " 
15 


LEGEND 

She  pulled  me  down  to  her  with  fumbling,  shaky 
hands. 

"  Tell  me,  Jenny,  where's  my  daughter?  " 

"Upstairs,  Auntie." 

"  Tell  me,  Jenny  —  any  news  ?  Any  news, 
Jenny  ?  " 

I  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  her.  I  was  afraid 
of  hurting  her.  She  was  so  shaking  and  pitiful. 

"  Is  it  about  Miss  Grey,  Auntie?  " 

"  Carey,  Jenny  —  Carey.  Mrs.  John  Carey. 
Good  name.  Good  man.  But  Anita  don't  like 
him.  Anita  won't  tell  me.  You  tell  me,  Jenny !  " 

"Auntie,  it's  all  right.  It's  all  right.  She'll 
tell  you,  of  course,  when  she  hears  again."  And 
I  soothed  her  as  well  as  I  could,  till  she  let  me 
loosen  her  hand  from  my  wrist,  and  kiss  her,  and 
start  her  at  her  knitting  again,  so  that  I  could  fin- 
ish making  ready  the  room.  But  as  I  went  to  wash 
my  hands  she  called  to  me  once  more. 
""Yes,  Auntie?" 

"  Put  it  on,  Jenny.  Don't  ask  my  daughter. 
Put  it  on." 

She  was  a  queer  old  woman.  She  made  me  want 
to  cry  sometimes.  She  was  so  frightened  always, 
and  yet  so  game. 

But  I  went  upstairs  after  supper  and  put  on  the 
frock  she  liked.  Black,  of  course,  but  with  Moth- 
er's lace  fichu  I  liked  myself  in  it  too.  I  did  my 
hair  high.  I  don't  know  why  I  took  so  much  trou- 
ble except  that  I  wanted  to  cheer  myself  up.  It 
16 


LEGEND 

had  been  a  depressing  day  in  spite  of  Eden  Walls. 
I  looked  forward  to  the  stir  of  visitors.  And  then 
I  was  curious  to  see  Kent  Rehan. 

When  I  came  down  the  Baxter  girl  was  already 
there,  standing  all  by  herself  at  the  fire.  She  was 
strikingly  dressed ;  but  she  looked  stranded.  I 
wondered  if  Anita  had  been  snubbing  her. 

Anita  was  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Flood  and 
with  a  lady  whom  I  had  not  seen  before.  She  was 
blonde,  with  greenish-golden  hair  and  round  eyes, 
very  black  eyes  that  had  no  lights  in  them,  not  even 
when  she  smiled.  She  often  smiled.  She  had  a 
drawling  voice  and  hardly  spoke  at  all,  except  to 
Mr.  Flood.  If  he  talked  to  anyone  else  or  walked 
away  from  her,  she  would  watch  him  for  a  minute, 
and  then  say  — *  Jasper  '  with  a  sort  of  purr,  not 
troubling  to  raise  her  voice.  But  he  always  heard 
and  came.  She  wore  a  wonderful  Chinese  shawl, 
white,  with  gold  dragons  worked  on  it,  and  when- 
ever she  moved  it  set  the  dragons  crawling.  She 
was  powdered  and  red-lipped  like  a  clown,  and  I 
didn't  really  like  her,  but  nevertheless  there  was 
something  about  her  that  was  queerly  attractive. 
When  she  smiled  at  me  because  I  gave  her  coffee,  I 
felt  quite  elated.  But  I  didn't  like  her.  Mr. 
Flood  called  her  *  Blanche.'  I  never  heard  her 
other  name. 

Anita  seemed  very  pleased  to  see  them.  I 
caught  scraps. 

"  Am  so  glad  —  one's  friends  about  one  —  such 
17 


LEGEND 

a  strain  waiting  for  news.  I  phoned  this  after- 
noon. No,  the  usual  phrases.  Anxious,  of  course, 

but  I  should  certainly  have  heard  if Good 

of  you  to  come !  No  chance  of  the  Whitneys,  I'm 
afraid  —  too  much  fog.  And  what  are  you  read- 
ing to  us?  " 

The  Baxter  girl,  as  I  greeted  her,  stripped  and 
re-dressed  me  with  one  swift  look. 

"  My  dear,  it  suits  you !  I  wish  I  could  look 
Victorian.  But  I'm  vile  in  black.  Have  you  seen 
Lila?  I  met  her  on  the  step.  They've  turned 
down  Sir  Fortmbras  in  America.  Isn't  it  rotten 
luck?  Anita  said  they  would.  Anita's  always 
right.  Any  more  news  of  Madala?  " 

Anita  overheard  her.  She  was  suddenly  gra- 
cious to  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  should  always  let  you  know 
at  once.  And  what  is  this  I  hear  about  Lila? 
Poor  Lila !  It's  the  last  chapter,  I'm  afraid.  I 
advised  her  from  the  beginning  that  the  American 
public  will  not  tolerate  —  but  dear  Lila  is  a  law 
unto  herself."  And  then,  as  Miss  Howe  came  in  — 
"  Lila,  my  dear !  How  good  of  you  to  venture ! 
A  night  like  this  makes  me  wonder  why  I  continue 
in  London.  Madala  has  urged  me  to  move  out 

ever    since No.     No   news.     But    Jasper's 

been    energetic She    circled   mazily    about 

them  while  I  brought  the  coffee. 

"  Kent  coming?  "  said  Mr.  Flood,  fumbling  with 
his  papers. 

18 


LEGEND 

Anita  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Who  can  account  for  Kent?  It  may  dawn  on 
him  that  he's  due  here  —  and  again,  it  may  not. 
It  depends  as  usual,  I  suppose,  on  the  new  pic- 
ture." 

"  Oh  yes,  there's  a  new  one,"  recollected  the 
Baxter  girl  carefully. 

"  There  must  be !  He  was  literally  flocculent 
yesterday."  Miss  Howe  chuckled.  "  That  can 
only  mean  one  of  two  things.  Art  or " 

"—the  lady!  Who  can  doubt?  Well,  if 
Carey  doesn't  object  to  his  brotherly  love  continu- 
ing, I'm  sure  I  don't.  But  I  wish  it  need  not  in- 
volve his  missing  his  appointments."  Mr.  Flood 
eyed  his  typescript  impatiently. 

Anita  was  instantly  all  tact. 

"  Oh,  we  won't  wait.  Certainly  not.  Pull  in 
to  the  fire.  Now,  Jasper !  " 

But  Miss  Howe,  as  she  swirled  into  Anita's  spe- 
cial chair,  her  skirts  overflowing  either  arm,  abol- 
ished Mr.  Flood  and  his  typescript  with  a  move- 
ment of  her  soft  dimply  hands. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  in  the  mood  even  for  Jasper's  ef- 
forts. I  want  to  let  myself  go.  I  want  to  damn 
publishers  —  and  husbands !  Damn  them !  Damn 
them !  There !  Am  I  shocking  you,  Miss  Sum- 
mer?" 

She  smiled  at  me  over  their  heads.  She  was 
always  polite  to  me.  I  liked  her.  She  was  like 
a  fat,  pink  paeony. 

19 


LEGEND 

"  Well,  if  you  take  my  advice "  began 

Anita. 

"  My  darling,  I  love  you,  but  I  don't  want  your 
advice.  I  only  want  one  person's  advice  —  ever  — 
and  she  has  got  married  and  is  doing  her  duty  in 
that  state  of  life  —  Hence  I  say  —  Damn  hus- 
bands !  I  tell  you  I  want  Madala  to  soothe  me, 
and  storm  at  the  injustice  of  publishers  for  me, 
and  then  —  no,  not  give  me  a  brilliant  idea  for  the 
last  chapter,  but  make  me  tell  her  one,  and  then 
applaud  me  for  it.  You  know,  Anita !  "  She  dug 
at  her  openly. 

I  caught  a  movement  in  Great-aunt's  corner. 

"  Coffee,  Auntie?  " 

She  gave  me  a  goblin  glance. 

"  My  daughter !  "  She  had  an  air  of  introduc- 
ing her  triumphantly.  "  Listen  !  She  don't  like 
fat  women." 

We  listened.  Anita's  voice  was  mellow  with 
cordiality. 

"  Yes  indeed.  Madala  has  often  said  to  me  that 
she  thought  you  well  worth  encouraging." 

Miss  Howe  laughed  jollily. 

"  I  admire  your  articles,  Nita.  I  wilt  when 
you  review  me.  But  you'll  never  write  novels,  dar- 
ling. You've  not  the  ear.  Madala  may  have  said 
that,  but  she  didn't  say  it  in  that  way." 

"  She  certainly  said  it." 

"  Some  day  I'll  ask  her." 

"  Some  day !  Oh,  some  day !  "  The  Baxter 
20 


LEGEND 

girl  was  staring  at  the  fire.     "  Shall  we  ever  get 
her  back?" 

"  In  a  year !  Let  us  give  her  a  year !  "  Mr. 
Flood  looked  up  at  the  lady  beside  him  with  a  thin 
smile.  I  couldn't  bear  him.  He  sat  on  the  floor, 
and  he  called  you  '  dear  lady,'  and  sometimes  he 
would  take  hold  of  your  watch-chain  and  finger  it 
as  he  talked  to  you.  But  he  was  awfully  clever, 
I  believe.  He  wrote  reviews  and  very  difficult  po- 
etry that  didn't  rhyme.  Anita  was  generally  mel- 
lifluous to  him  and  she  quoted  him  a  good  deal. 
She  turned  to  him  with  just  the  same  smile  — 

"  Ah,  of  course !     You've  met  John  Carey  too." 

"  For  my  sins,  dear  lady  —  for  my  sins." 

"  Not  the  same  sins,  surely,"  breathed  the  blonde 
lady. 

"  As  the  virtuous  Carey's  ?  Don't  be  rude  to 
me !  It's  a  fact  —  the  man's  a  churchwarden. 
He  carries  a  little  tin  plate  on  Sundays !  Didn't 
you  tell  me  so,  Anita  ?  No  —  we  give  her  a  year. 
Don't  we,  Anita?" 

"  But  what  did  she  marry  him  for?  "  wailed  the 
Baxter  girl. 

They  all  laughed. 

"  Copy,  dear  lady,  copy !  "  Mr.  Flood  was  en- 
joying  himself.  "Why  will  you  have  ideals? 
Carey  was  a  new  type." 

"  But  she  needn't  have  married  him ! "  insisted 
the  Baxter  girl.  The  argument  was  evidently  an 
old  one. 

21 


LEGEND 

"  She,  if  I  read  her  aright,  could  have  dispensed 
with  the  ceremony,  but  the  churchwarden  had  his 
views.  Obviously !  Can't  you  imagine  him  —  all 
whiskers  and  wedding-ring?  " 

"  But  I  thought  he  was  clean-shaven  !  I  thought 
he  was  good-looking !  "  I  sympathized  with  the 
Baxter  girl's  dismay. 

"  Ah  —  I  speak  in  parables  — 

"  You  do  hate  him,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Howe 
with  her  wide,  benevolent  smile.  "  Now,  I  won- 
der   " 

Mr.  Flood  flushed  into  disclaimers,  while  the 
woman  beside  him  looked  at  Miss  Howe  with  half- 
closed  eyes. 

"I?  How  could  I?  Our  orbits  don't  touch. 
7  approved,  I  assure  you.  An  invaluable  experi- 
ence for  our  Madala !  A  year  of  wedded  love,  an- 
other of  wedded  boredom,  and  then  —  a  master- 
piece, dear  people !  Madala  Grey  back  to  us,  a 
giantess  refreshed.  Gods  !  what  a  book  it  will  be  1 " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Howe  vaguely. 

Anita  answered  her  with  that  queer  movement 
of  the  head  that  always  reminded  me  of  a  pounc- 
ing lizard. 

"  No  need !  I've  watched  Madala  Grey's  career 
from  the  beginning." 

"  For  this  I  maintain  — "  Mr.  Flood  ignored 
her  — "  Eden  Walls  and  Ploughed  Fields  may  be 
amazing  (The  Resting-place  I  cut  out.  It's  an  in- 
discretion. Madala  caught  napping)  but  they're 


LEGEND 

preliminaries,  dear  people !  mere  preliminaries,  be- 
lieve me." 

"  I  sometimes  wonder "  Miss  Howe  made 

me  think  of  Saladin's  cushion  in  The  Talisman. 
She  always  went  on  so  softly  and  imperviously 
with  her  own  thoughts  — "  Suppose  now,  that  she's 
written  herself  out,  and  knows  it?  " 

The  Baxter  girl  gave  a  little  gasp  of  horrified 
appreciation. 

"  So  the  marriage " 

"  An  emergency  exit." 

But  Anita  pitied  them  aloud  — 

"  It  shows  how  little  you  know  Madala,  either 
of  you." 

"  Does  anyone?     Do  you?  " 

Anita  smiled  securely. 

"  The  type's  clear,  at  least."  Mr.  Flood  looked 
round  the  circle.  His  eyes  shone.  "  Une  grande 
amoureuse  —  that  I've  always  maintained.  Carey 
may  be  the  first  —  but  he  won't  be  the  last." 

"  Is  he  the  first  ?  How  did  she  come  to  write 
The  Restmg-place  then?  Tell  me  that!"  Anita 
thrust  at  him  with  her  forefinger  and  behind  her, 
in  the  corner,  I  saw  the  gesture  duplicated. 

"  So  I  will  when  I've  read  the  new  book,  dear 
lady." 

"  If  ever  it  writes  itself,"  Miss  Howe  underlined 
him. 

"  As  to  that  —  I  give  her  a  year,  as  I  say. 
Once  this  business  is  over — "  his  voice  mellowed 
23 


LEGEND 

into   kindliness  — "  and   good   luck   to   her,   dear 
woman " 

"  Ah,  good  luck ! "  said  Miss  Howe  and  smiled 
at  him. 

"  Once  it's  over,  I  say  — 

"  But  she  will  be  all  right,  won't  she?  "  said  the 
Baxter  girl. 

"  I  should  certainly  have  been  told "  began 

Anita. 

Miss  Howe  harangued  them  — 

"Have  you  ever  known  Madala  Grey  fail  yet? 
She'll  be  all  right.  She'll  pull  it  off — trium- 
phantly. You  see !  But  as  for  the  book  —  if  it 
comes 

"  When  it  comes,"  corrected  Mr.  Flood. 

"  What's  that?  "  said  Anita  sharply. 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  passage,  a  heavy  sound 
of  feet.  It  caught  at  my  heart.  It  was  a  sound 
that  I  knew.  They  had  come  tramping  up  the 
stairs  like  that  when  they  fetched  away  Mother. 
Thud  —  stumble  —  thud !  I  shivered.  But  as 
the  steps  came  nearer  they  belonged  to  but  one 
man.  The  door  opened  and  the  fog  and  the  man 
entered  together.  Everyone  turned  to  him  with  a 
queer,  long  flash  of  faces. 

"  Kent !  "  cried  Anita,  welcoming  him.  Then 
her  voice  changed.  "  Kent !  What's  wrong? 
What  is  it?" 

He  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  stood,  his  back 
against  it,  staring  at  us,  like  a  man  stupefied. 
24 


LEGEND 

The  Baxter  girl  broke  in  shrilly  — 

"  He's  wired.  He's  had  a  wire !  "  She  pointed 
at  his  clenched  hand. 

Then  he,  too,  looked  down  at  his  own  hand. 
His  fingers  relaxed  slowly  and  a  crush  of  red  and 
grey  paper  slid  to  the  floor. 

"  A  son,"  he  said  dully. 

"  Ah !  "     A  cry  from  the  corner  by  the  fire  eased 
the  tension.     Great-aunt  Serle  was  clapping  her 
hands  together.     Her  face  was  wrinkled  all  over 
with  delight.     "  The  good  girl !     The  pretty  - 
And  a  son  too !     A  little  son !     Oh,  the  good  girl  1 " 

Anita  turned  on  her,  her  voice  like  a  scourge  — 

"Be  quiet,  Mother!"  Then— "Well,  Kent? 
Well?" 

"Well?"  he  repeated  after  her. 

"  Madala?  How's  Madala?  What  about  Ma- 
dalaGrey?" 

"Dead!"  he  said. 

Dead.  The  word  fell  amongst  the  group  of  us 
in  the  circle  of  lamp-light,  like  a  plummet  into  a 
pool.  Dead.  For  an  instant  one  could  hear  the 
blank  drop  of  it.  Then  we  broke  up  into  gestures 
and  little  cries,  into  a  babel  of  dismay  and  concern 
and  rather  horrible  excitement. 

Instinctively  I  separated  myself  from  them.  It 
was  neither  bad  news  nor  good  news  to  me,  but  it 
recalled  to  me  certain  hours,  and  they  —  it  was  as 
if  they  enjoyed  the  importance  of  bereavement. 
Anita  talked.  Miss  Howe  was  gulping,  and  dab- 
25 


LEGEND 

bing  at  her  eyes.  The  Baxter  girl  kept  on  say- 
ing— 'Dead?'  'Dead?'  under  her  breath,  and 
with  that  wide  nervous  smile  that  you  sometimes 
see  on  people's  faces  when  they  are  far  enough 
away  from  laughter.  Great-aunt  had  shrunk  into 
her  corner.  I  could  barely  see  her.  The  blonde 
lady  had  her  hand  on  her  heart  and  was  panting  a 
little,  as  if  she  had  been  running,  and  yet,  as  al- 
ways, she  watched  Mr.  Flood.  He  had  pulled  out 
a  note-book  and  a  fountain-pen  and  was  shaking  at 
it  furiously,  while  his  little  eyes  flickered  from  one 
to  another  —  even  to  me.  I  felt  his  observance 
pursue  me  to  the  very  edge  of  the  ring  of  light, 
and  drop  again,  baulked  by  the  dazzle,  as  I  slipped 
past  him  into  the  swinging  shadows  beyond.  It's 
odd  how  lamplight  cuts  a  room  in  two :  I  could 
see  every  corner  of  the  light  and  shadow  alike,  and 
even  the  outer  room  was  not  too  dim  for  me  to 
move  about  it  easily;  but  to  those  directly  under 
the  lamp  I  knew  I  had  become  all  but  invisible,  a 
blur  among  the  other  blurs  that  were  curtains  and 
pictures  and  chairs.  They  remembered  me  as  lit- 
tle as,  absorbed  and  clamorous,  they  remembered 
the  man  who  had  brought  them  their  news,  and  then 
had  brushed  his  way  through  question  and  comment 
to  the  deep  alcove  of  the  window  in  the  outer  room 
and  there  stood,  rigid  and  withdrawn,  staring  out 
through  the  uncurtained  pane  at  the  solid  night 
beyond.  I  could  not  see  his  face,  only  the  outline 


LEGEND 

of  a  big  and  clumsy  body,  and  a  hand  that  twitched 
and  fumbled  at  the  tassel  of  the  blind. 

And  all  the  while  Anita,  white  as  paper,  was 
talking,  talking,  talking,  saying  how  great  the 
shock  was,  and  how  much  Miss  Grey  had  been  to 
her  —  a  stream  of  sorrow  and  self-assertion.  It 
was  just  as  if  she  said  — '  Don't  forget  that  this  is 
far  worse  for  me  than  for  any  of  you.  Don't  for- 
get  » 

But  the  others  went  on  with  their  own  thoughts. 

"Dead?  Gone?  It's  not  possible."  Miss 
Howe  was  all  blubbered  and  deplorable.  "  What 
shall  we  do  without  her  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  that's  it !  "  The  Baxter  girl  edged-in 
her  chair  to  her  like  a  young  dog  asking  for  com- 
fort. 

"  For  that  matter,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
literature,"  Anita's  voice  grated,  "  she  died  a  year 
ago." 

"  It's  not  possible !  That's  what  I  say  —  it's 
not  possible !  "  It  was  strange  how  even  the  Bax- 
ter girl  ignored  Anita.  "  Dead !  I  can't  grasp 
it.  It's  —  it's  too  awful.  She  was  so  vivid." 

"Awful?"  Mr.  Flood  was  biting  his  fingers. 
"Awful?  Nothing  of  the  kind.  You  know  that 
Holbein  cut  —  no,  it's  earlier  stuff  — '  Death  and 
the  Lady,'  crude,  preposterous.  And  that's  what 
it  is.  Old  Bones  and  Madala  Grey?  That's  not 
tragedy,  that's  farce !  Farce,  dear  people, 
27 


LEGEND 

farce !  "  Then  his  high  tripping  voice  broke  sud- 
denly. "Dead?  Why,  she  wasn't  thirty!" 

"  She  was  twenty-six  last  June,"  said  Anita 
finally.  "  Midsummer  Day.  I  know." 

"  June !  "  He  caught  it  up.  "  Just  so  — 
June !  Isn't  that  characteristic  ?  Isn't  that 
Madala  all  over?  Of  course  she  was  born  in  June. 
She  would  be.  She  was  June.  June 

"  Her  lips  and  her  roses  yet  maiden 
A  summer  of  storm  in  her  eyes " 

Miss  Howe  winced. 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  Swinburnize,  Jasper ! 
She's  not  your  meat.  Oh,  I  want  to  cry  —  I  want 
to  cry  !  Dead  —  at  twenty-six " 

"  In  child-bed,"  finished  Anita  bitterly,  and  her 
voice  made  it  an  unclean  and  shameful  end. 

Mr.  Flood's  glance  felt  its  way  over  her,  hate- 
fully. It  never  lifted  to  her  face. 

"  Of    course    from    your    point    of   view,    dear 

lady "  he  began,  and  smiled  as  he  made  his 

little  bow  of  attention. 

I  thought  him  insolent,  and  so,  I  believe,  did 
Miss  Howe.  She  lifted  her  head  sharply  and  I 
thought  she  would  have  spoken ;  but  Anita  gave  her 
no  time.  There  was  always  a  sort  of  thick-skinned 
valiance  about  Anita. 

"  Oh,  but  you  all  know  my  point  of  view.  She 
knew  it  herself.  I  never  concealed  it.  You  know 
how  I  devoted  myself  — 

28 


LEGEND 

"  A  bye-word,  a  bye-word !  "  said  Miss  Howe 
under  her  breath. 

" — but  not  so  much  to  her  as  to  her  gift.  I 
should  never  allow  a  personal  sentiment  to  over- 
power me.  I  haven't  the  time  for  it.  But  she  had 
the  call,  she  had  the  gift,  and  because  she  had  it  I 
say,  as  I  have  always  said,  that  for  Madala  Grey, 
marriage " 

"  And  all  it  implies "  Mr.  Flood  was  still 

smiling. 

She  accepted  it. 

"  Marriage  and  all  that  it  implies  was  apostasy. 
I  stand  for  Literature." 

"  And  Literature,"  with  a  glance  at  the  others, 
"  is  honoured." 

They  wearied  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  they 
sparked  and  fizzled  and  whirred  with  the  sham  life 
of  machinery:  and  like  machinery  they  affected 
me.  For  at  first  I  could  not  hear  anything  but 
them,  and  then  they  confused  and  tired  me,  and 
last  of  all  they  faded  into  a  mere  wall-paper  of 
sound,  and  I  forgot  that  they  were  there,  save 
that  I  wondered  now  and  then,  as  stray  sentences 
shrilled  out  of  the  buzz,  that  they  were  not  yet 
oppressed  into  silence. 

For  there  was  grief  abroad  —  a  grief  without 
shape,  without  sound,  without  expression  —  a 
quality,  a  pulsing  essence,  a  distillation  of  pure 
pain.  From  some  centre  it  rayed  out,  it  spread, 
it  settled  upon  the  room,  imperceptibly,  like  the 
29 


LEGEND 

fall  of  dust.  It  reached  me.  I  felt  it.  It  soaked 
into  me.  I  ached  with  it.  I  could  not  sit  quiet. 
I  was  not  drawn,  I  was  impelled.  Dead  —  the 
dull,  bewildered  voice  was  still  in  my  ears.  That 
I  heard.  But  it  was  statement,  not  appeal.  It 
was  not  his  suffering  that  demanded  relief,  but 
some  responding  capacity  for  pain  in  me  that 
awoke  and  cried  out  restlessly  that  such  anguish 
was  unlawful,  beyond  endurance,  that  still  it  I 
must,  I  must ! 

I  rose.  I  looked  round  me.  Then  I  went  very 
softly  into  the  outer  room. 

He  was  still  standing  at  the  window.  The  street 
lamp,  level  with  the  sill,  was  quenched  to  a  yellow 
gloom.  It  lit  up  the  wet  striped  branches  and 
dead  bobbins  of  the  plane-tree  beside  it,  and  the 
sickly  undersides  of  its  shrivelled  last  leaves.  I 
never  thought  a  tree  could  look  so  ghastly. 
Against  that  unnatural  glitter  and  the  luminous 
thick  air  the  man  and  the  half-drawn  curtain  stood 
out  in  solid,  unfamiliar  bulk  of  black. 

I  came  and  stood  just  behind  him.  He  was  so 
big  that  I  only  reached  his  shoulder.  He  may 
have  heard  me :  I  think  he  did ;  but  he  did  not  turn. 
I  was  not  frightened  of  him.  That  was  so  queer, 
because  as  a  rule  I  can't  talk  to  strangers.  I  get 
nervous  and  red,  and  foolish-tongued,  especially 
with  men.  Of  course  I  knew  all  the  usual  men,  the 
doctor  at  home,  and  the  church  people,  and  hus- 
bands that  came  back  by  the  five-thirty,  and  now 
30 


LEGEND 

all  Anita's  friends,  and  Mr.  Flood;  but  I  never 
had  anything  to  say  to  them  or  they  to  me.  But 
with  Kent  Rehan,  somehow,  it  was  different.  He 
was  different.  I  never  thought  — *  This  is  a 
strange  man.'  I  never  thought  — *  He  doesn't 
know  me:  it's  impertinent  to  break  in  upon  him: 
what  will  he  think?  '  I  never  thought  of  all  that. 
I  never  thought  about  myself  at  all.  I  was  just 
passionately  desiring  to  help  him  and  I  didn't  know 
how  to  do  it. 

I  think  I  stood  there  for  four  or  five  minutes, 
trying  to  find  -words,  opening  my  lips,  and  then 
catching  back  the  phrase  before  a  sound  came, 
because  it  seemed  so  poor  and  meaningless.  And 
all  the  while  the  Baxter  girl's  words  were  running 
in  my  head  — '  They  say  he  was  in  love  with  her.' 

With  her  — with  Madala  Grey.  She  was  the 
key.  I  had  the  strangest  pang  of  interest  in  this 
unknown  woman.  Who  was  she?  What  was  she? 
What  had  she  been?  What  had  she  done  so  to 
centre  herself  in  so  many,  in  such  alien  lives? 
What  had  she  in  common  for  them  all?  Books, 
books,  books  —  I'd  never  heard  of  her  books ! 
And  she  was  married.  Yet  the  loss  of  her,  unpos- 
sessed, could  bring  such  a  look  (as  he  turned  rest- 
lessly from  the  window  at  last)  such  a  look  to  Kent 
Rehan's  face.  I  was  filled  with  a  sort  of  anger 
against  that  dead  woman,  and  I  envied  her.  I 
never  saw  a  man  look  so  —  as  if  his  very  soul  had 
been  bruised.  It  was  not,  it  was  never,  a  weak 
31 


LEGEND 

face,  and  it  was  not  a  young  one;  yet  in  that  in- 
stant I  saw  in  it,  and  clearly,  its  own  forgotten 
childhood,  bewildered  by  its  first  encounter  with 
pain.  It  was  that  fleeting  look  that  touched  me 
so  and  gave  me  courage,  so  that  I  found  myself 
saying  to  him,  very  low  and  quickly,  and  with  a 
queer  authority  — 

"  It  won't  always  hurt  so  much.  It  will  get 
easier.  I  promise  you  it  will.  It  does.  Truly  it 
does.  In  six  months  —  I  d o  know." 

He  looked  down  at  me  strangely. 

I  went  on  because  I  had  to,  but  it  was  difficult. 
It  was  desperately  difficult.  I  could  hear  myself 
blundering  and  stammering,  and  using  hateful 
slangy  phrases  that  I  never  used  as  a  rule. 

"  I  had  to  tell  you.  It  isn't  cheek.  I  know  — 
it  hurts  like  fun.  It'll  be  worst  out  of  doors. 
You  see  them  coming,  you  see  them  just  ahead  of 
you,  and  then  it  isn't  them.  But  it  won't  always 
hurt  so  horribly.  I  promise  you.  One  manages. 
One  gets  used  to  living  with  it.  I  know." 

He  looked  at  my  black  dress. 

"Your  husband?" 

"  No.     Mother." 

He  said  no  more.  But  he  did  not  go  away  from 
me.  We  stood  side  by  side  at  the  window. 

The  voices  in  the  other  room  insisted  themselves 
into  my  mind  again,  against  my  will,  like  the  tick- 
ing of  a  clock  in  the  night.  I  was  thinking  about 
him,  not  them.  But  Anita  called  to  me  to  put 
32 


LEGEND 

coal  on  the  fire  and,  once  among  them,  I  did  not 
like  to  go  back  to  him  again. 

They  had  re-grouped  themselves  at  the  hearth. 
Miss  Howe  was  in  the  chair  with  the  chintz  cover 
that  was  as  pink  and  white  and  blue-ribboned  as 
she  herself.  The  Baxter  girl  crouched  on  the  pouf 
and  the  fire-light  danced  over  her  by  fits  and 
starts  till,  what  with  her  violet  dress  and  her  black 
boy's  head  with  the  green  band  in  it  and  that 
orange  glow  upon  her,  she  looked  like  one  of  the 
posters  in  the  Tube.  The  blonde  lady  had  pushed 
back  her  chair  to  the  edge  of  the  lamp-light,  so 
that  her  face  was  a  blur  and  her  white  dress  yellow- 
grey.  Her  knees  made  a  back  for  Mr.  Flood  sit- 
ting cross-legged  at  her  feet,  and  watching  the 
Baxter  girl  as  if  he  admired  her.  Once  the  blonde 
lady  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  caught  it 
and  played  with  the  rings  on  it  while  he  listened  to 
her,  and  yet  still  watched  the  Baxter  girl.  She 
went  on  whispering,  her  hand  in  his,  till  at  last  he 
put  back  his  head  and  caught  her  eye  and  laughed. 
Then  she  leaned  back  again  as  if  she  were  satisfied. 
But  I  thought  — *  How  I  should  hate  to  have  that 
dank  hair  rubbing  against  my  skirt.'  Beside  Mr. 
Flood  lay  the  MS.  he  had  brought,  but  I  think 
Anita  had  forgotten  it.  She,  sitting  at  the  table 
in  her  high-backed  chair  (she  never  lolled),  was 
still  talking,  indeed  they  were  all  talking  about  this 
Madala  Grey.  Anita's  voice  was  as  pinched  as 
her  face. 

33 


LEGEND 

"  Oh,  I  knew  from  the  first  what  it  would  be ! 
She  could  never  do  anything  by  halves.  She  had 
no  moderation.  The  writing,  the  work,  all  that 
made  her  what  she  was,  tossed  aside,  for  a  whim, 
for  a  madness,  for  a  man.  I  can't  help  it  —  it 
makes  me  bitter." 

"  Do  you  grudge  it  her  so?  "  The  Baxter  girl 
looked  at  her  wonderingly.  "  I  kicked  at  it  too, 
of  course.  We  all  did,  didn't  we?  But  now,  I 
like  to  think  how  happy  she  looked  the  last  time  she 
came  here.  Do  you  remember?  I  liked  that  blue 
frock.  And  the  scarf  with  the  roses  —  I  gave  her 
that.  Liberty.  She  was  thin  though.  She  al- 
ways worked  too  hard.  Poor  Madala !  Heigh-ho, 
the  gods  are  jealous  gods." 

Anita  stared  in  front  of  her. 

"  Just  gods.  She  served  two  masters.  She 
was  bound  to  pay." 

"  You  are  hard,"  said  the  Baxter  girl  in  a  low 
voice. 

Miss  Howe  rocked  herself. 

"  But  don't  you  know  how  she  feels?  I  do. 
It's  the  helplessness 

Anita's  pale  eye  met  and  held  her  glance  as 
if  she  resented  that  sympathy.  Then,  as  if  in- 
deed she  were  suddenly  grown  weak,  she  acqui- 
esced. 

"  I  suppose  so.  Yes,  it's  the  helplessness.  '  If 
this  didn't  happen  '— « If  that  weren't  so  '—  Little 
things,  little  things  —  and  they  govern  one.  A 
34 


LEGEND 

broken  doll  —  a  cowslip  ball  —  stronger  than  all 
my  strength.  And  she  needn't  have  met  Carey. 
It  was  just  a  chance.  If  I'd  known  —  that  day! 
I  used  to  ask  her  questions,  just  to  make  her  talk. 
I  remember  asking  her  about  her  old  home  —  more 
to  set  her  off  than  anything.  I  said  I'd  like  to 
see  it  some  day.  It  was  true.  I  was  interested. 
But  it  was  only  to  make  her  talk.  But  she  —  oh, 
you  know  how  she  foamed  up  about  a  thing.  '  My 
old  home !  Would  you,  Anita  ?  Would  you  like 
to  come?  Wouldn't  it  bore  you,  Anita?  It's  all 
spoiled,  you  know.  But  I  go  down  now  and  then. 
Nobody  remembers  me.  It's  like  being  a  ghost. 
Oh,  I  feel  for  ghosts.  Would  you  really  like  to 
come  ?  Shall  we  go  soon  ?  Shall  we  go  today  ?  ' 
And  then,  of  course,  down  we  go.  And  then  we 
meet  Carey.  And  then  the  play  begins." 

Miss  Howe  shook  her  head. 

"  Ends." 

Anita  accepted  it. 

"  Ends.  Then  the  play  ends."  And  then, 
frowning— "If  I'd  known  that  day  — if  I'd 
known !  I  was  warned,  too.  That's  strange. 
I've  never  thought  of  it  from  that  day  to  this.  If 
I  were  an  old  wife  now "  She  shivered. 

"  What  happened?  "  said  the  Baxter  girl  curi- 
ously. 

"  Oh,  well,  off  we  went !  We  had  a  carriage  to 
ourselves.  I  was  glad.  I  thought  she  might 
talk." 

35 


LEGEND 

"  And  you  always  tried  to  make  her  talk,"  said 
Miss  Howe  softly. 

Anita  went  on  without  answering  her. 

"  She  grew  quite  excited  as  we  travelled  down, 
talking  about  her  '  youth.'  She  always  spoke  as 
if  she  were  a  hundred." 

"  She  put  something  into  that  youth  of  hers,  I 
shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  She  did.  The  things  she  told  me  that  day.  I 
knew  she  had  been  in  America,  but  I  never 

dreamed She  landed  there,  if  you  please, 

without  a  penny  in  her  pocket,  without  a  friend  in 
the  world." 

"  I  never  understood  why  she  went  to  America," 
said  Miss  Howe.  "  I  asked  her  once." 

"  What  did  she  say?  "  said  Anita  curiously. 

"  To  make  her  fortune.  But  I  never  got  any 
details  out  of  her." 

"  Didn't  you  know  ?  "  said  Anita.  "  Her  people 
emigrated.  The  father  failed.  It  happened  when 
Madala  was  eighteen,  and  she  and  her  mother  per- 
suaded him,  expecting  him,  literally,  to  make  their 
fortunes.  The  mother  seems  to  have  been  an  er- 
ratic person.  Irish,  I  believe.  Beautiful.  Ex- 
travagant. I  have  always  imagined  that  it  was 
her  extravagance  —  but  Madala  and  the  husband 
seem  to  have  adored  her.  I  remember  Madala  say- 
ing once  that  her  father  had  been  born  unlucky, 
*  except  when  he  married  Mother ! '  I  suspect, 
myself,  that  that  was  the  beginning  of  his  ill-luck. 
36 


LEGEND 

Anyhow,  when  the  crash  came,  they  gathered  to- 
gether what  they  had  and  started  off  on  some  ro- 
mantic notion  of  the  mother's  to  make  their  for- 
tune farming.  America.  Steerage.  The  Sylva- 
nia" 

"  Sylvania?  That's  familiar.  What  was  it? 
A  collision,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  No,  that  was  the  Empress  of  Peru.  The  Syl- 
vania caught  fire  in  mid-ocean  —  a  ghastly  busi- 
ness. There  were  only  about  fifty  survivors. 
Both  her  people  were  drowned." 

"  Oh,  that's  what  she  meant,"  began  Miss  Howe, 
"  that  time  at  the  Academy.  We  were  looking  at 
a  storm-scape,  and  she  said  — '  People  don't  know. 
It's  not  like  that.  They  wouldn't  try  to  paint  it 
if  they  knew.'  She  was  quite  white.  Of  course  I 

never    dreamed Poor    old    Madala !     Well, 

what  happened  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  reached  America  in  what  she  stood  up 
in.  There  was  a  survivors'  fund,  of  course,  but 
money  melts  in  a  city  when  you're  strange  to  it." 

"  Couldn't  she  have  come  back  to  England?  " 

"  I  believe  she  had  relations  over  here,  but  her 
mother  had  quarrelled  with  them  all  in  turn.  They 
didn't  appreciate  her  mother  and  that  was  the  un- 
forgivable sin  for  Madala.  She'd  have  starved 
sooner  than  ask  them  to  help  her.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  she  did,  too  !  —  half  starve  anyway.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  those  first  bare  months  haven't 
revenged  themselves  at  last." 
37 


LEGEND 

"  Oh,  if  one  had  known  !  "  began  the  Baxter  girl. 
"  How  is  it  that  no  one  ever  knows  —  or  cares  ?  " 

"You?  You  were  a  schoolgirl.  Who  had 
heard  of  her  in  those  days?  But  she  made  friends. 
There  was  a  girl,  a  journalist,  who  had  been  sent 
to  interview  the  survivors.  She  seems  to  have 
helped  her  in  the  beginning.  She  found  her  a 
lodging  —  oh,  can't  you  see  how  she  uses  that 
lodging  in  Eden  Walls?  —  and  gave  her  occasional 
hack  jobs,  typing,  and  now  and  then  proof-read- 
ing. Then  she  got  some  work  taken,  advertise- 
ment work,  little  articles  on  soaps  and  scents  and 
face-creams  that  she  used  to  illustrate  herself. 
She  was  comically  proud  of  them.  She  kept  them 
all." 

"  I  suppose  in  her  spare  time  she  was  already 
working  at  Eden  Walls?  " 

"  No.  I  asked  her.  And  she  said  — *  Oh,  no,  I 
was  too  miserable.  Oh,  Anita,  I  was  miserable.' 
And  then  she  began  again  telling  funny  stories 
about  her  experiences.  No,  she  was  back  in  Eng- 
land before  she  began  Eden  Walls.  However,  she 
seems  to  have  made  quite  a  little  income  at  last, 
even  to  have  saved.  And  then,  just  when  she  be- 
gan to  see  her  way  before  her  to  a  sort  of  security, 
then  she  threw  it  all  up  and  came  home." 

"  Just  like  Madala !     But  why?  " 

"  Heaven  knows  !     Homesick,  she  said." 

"  But  she  hadn't  got  a  home !  " 

"  It  was  England  —  the  English  country  —  the 
38 


LEGEND 

south  country  —  the  Westering  Hill  country. 
She  used  to  talk  about  it  like  —  like  a  lover." 

"  Isn't  that  more  probable?  "  said  Mr.  Flood. 

"What?" 

"A  lover." 

"Carey?" 

"  Not  necessarily  Carey." 

Anita  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  approval. 

"Ah  —  so  you've  thought  of  that,  too?  Now 
what  exactly  do  you  base  it  on  ?  " 

He  shrugged  and  smiled. 

"  Delightfullest  —  my  thoughts  are  thistle- 
down." 

"  But  you  have  your  theory?  "  She  pinned  him 
down.  "  I  see  that  you  too  have  your  theory." 

"  Our  theory."     He  bowed. 

"  You've  got  wits,  Jasper." 

"What  are  you  two  driving  at?"  Miss  Howe 
fidgeted. 

"  We're  evolving  a  theory  —  a  theory  of  Ma- 
dala  Grey.  Who  lived  in  the  south  country, 
Anita?" 

"  Carey,  for  that  matter." 

"Matters  not.  She  didn't  come  home  for 
Carey.  You  can't  make  books  without  copy. 
Not  her  sort  of  book.  Any  more  than  you  can 
make  bricks  without  straw.  But  she  didn't  make 
her  bricks  from  his  straw,  that  I'll  swear." 

"  No,  she  didn't  come  home  for  Carey,"  said 
Anita.  "  I  tell  you,  that  was  the  day  she  met 
39 


LEGEND 

him.  It's  barely  a  year  ago.  She  had  made  her 
name  twice  over  by  then.  She  was  already  casting 
about  for  her  third  plot.  I  think  it  was  that  that 
made  her  so  restless.  She'd  grown  very  restless. 
But  she  certainly  didn't  come  home  for  Carey." 

"Then  why?" 

"  Homesick." 

"  That's  absurd." 

"  I'm  telling  you  what  she  said.  She  insisted  on 
it.  She  used  a  queer  phrase.  She  said  — '  I 
longed  for  home  till  my  lips  ached.'  " 

The  lady  with  Mr.  Flood  stirred  in  her  shadows. 

"  She  didn't  imagine  that.  That  happens. 
That  is  how  one  longs She  broke  off. 

"For  home?"  he  said,  with  that  smile  of  his 
that  ended  at  his  mouth  and  left  his  eyes  like  chips 
of  quartz. 

She  answered  him  slowly,  him  only  — 

"  I  suppose,  with  some  women,  it  could  be  for 
home.  If  she  says  so  —  That  is  what  con- 

founds one  in  her.  She  knows  —  she  proves  that 
she  knows,  in  a  phrase  like  that,  things  that  (when 
one  thinks  of  her  personality)  she  can't  know  — 
couldn't  know.  It's  inexplicable.  '  Till  one's  lips 
ache  '-  —  Oh,  Lord !  "  She  laughed  harshly. 

Anita  looked  at  them  uncertainly. 

"Well,  that's  what  she  said.  And  to  judge 
from  her  description  Westering  was  something  to 
be  homesick  for.  I  expected  a  paradise." 

"  Westering?     That's  quite  a  town." 
40 


LEGEND 

"  Yes,  I  know.  There's  a  summer  colony. 
Madala  mourned  over  it.  She  was  absurd.  She 
raced  me  out  of  the  station  and  up  the  hill,  and 
would  scarcely  let  me  look  about  me  till  we  were 
at  the  top,  because  the  lower  end  of  the  village  had 
been  built  over.  It  might  have  been  the  sack  of 
Rome  to  hear  her — 'Asphalt  paths!  Disgrace- 
ful! The  grocer  used  to  have  blue  blinds. 
They've  spoiled  the  village  green.'  And  so  it  went 
on  until  we  reached  Upper  Westering." 

"  Oh,  where  they  live  now?  " 

"  Yes.  And  then  she  turned  to  me  and  beamed 
— '  This  is  my  country.'  It  certainly  is  a  pretty 
place.  There's  a  fine  view  over  the  downs  ;  but  too 
hilly  for  me.  We  climbed  up  and  down  lanes  and 
picked  ridiculous  bits  of  twig  and  green  stuff  till 
I  protested.  Then  she  took  me  into  the  church- 
yard. We  wandered  about :  very  pleasant  it  was : 
such  a  hot  spring  day,  and  pretty  pinkish  flowers 
—  what  did  she  call  the  stuff?  —  cuckoo-pint, 
springing  from  the  graves  —  and  daffodils.  Then 
we  sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  church  to  eat  our 
lunch.  We  began  to  discuss  architecture  and  I 
was  growing  interested,  really  beginning  to  enjoy 
myself  —  some  of  it  was  pre-Norman  —  when  a 
man  climbed  over  the  stile  from  the  field  behind  the 
church,  and  came  down  the  path  towards  us.  As 
he  passed,  Madala  looked  up  and  he  looked  down, 
and  up  she  jumped  in  a  moment.  '  Why,'  she  said, 
' 1  do  believe  —  I  do  believe  — '  You  know  that 
41 


LEGEND 

little  chuckly  rise  in  her  voice  when  she's  pleased  — 

*  I  do  believe  it's  you ! '     *  Oh,  Madala,'  I  said, 

*  the  sandwiches ! '     They  were  in  a  paper  on  her 
lap,  you  know.      She  had  scattered  them  right  and 
left.     But   I  might  have  talked  to  the  wind.     I 
must   say  he  had  perfectly   respectable   manners. 
He  turned  back  at  once,  and  smiled  at  her,  and 
hesitated,  and  began  to  pick  up  the  sandwiches, 
though  he  evidently  didn't  know  her.     '  Oh,'  she 
said,    *  don't    you    remember  ?     Aren't    you    Dr. 
Carey?     You  mended  my  camel  when  I  was  little. 
I'm  Madala ! '     She  was  literally  brimming  over 
with  pleasure.     But,  you  know,  such  a  silly  way 
to  put  it !     If  she  had   said   '  Madala   Grey '   he 
would  have  known  in  a  moment.     There  were  a 
couple  of  Eden  Walls  on  the  bookstall  as  we  went 
through.     I  saw  them.     However,  he  remembered 
her  then.     He  certainly  seemed  pleased  to  see  her, 
in  his  awkward  way.     He  stood  looking  down  at 
her,  amused  and  interested.     People  always  got  so 
interested   in   Madala.     Haven't   you   noticed   it? 
Even  people  in  trams.     Though  I  thought  to  my- 
self at  the  time  — «  How  absurd  Madala  is  !     What 
can  they  have  in  common?  '     Yes,  I  thought  it 
even   then." 

"  Well,  what  had  they  in  common?  " 
"  Heaven  knew !     She  was  ten  and  he  was  twen- 
ty-five when  they  last  met.     He  knew  her  grand- 
people  :  he  had  mended  her  dolls  for  her :  he  lived 
in  her  old  home:  that,  according  to  her,  was  all 
42 


LEGEND 

that  mattered.  She  said  to  me  afterwards,  I  re- 
member, *  Just  imagine  seeing  him !  I  was  pleased 
to  see  him.  He  belongs  in,  you  know.'  '  No,  Ma- 
dala,' I  said,  '  I  don't  know.  Such  a  fuss  about  a 
man  you  haven't  seen  since  you  were  a  child!  I 
call  it  affectation.  It's  a  slight  on  your  real 
friends.'  *  Oh,'  she  said,  *  but  he  belongs  in.'  She 
looked  quite  chastened.  She  said — *  Nita,  it 
wasn't  affectation.  I  believe  he  was  pleased  too  — 
honestly!'  He  was.  Who  wouldn't  be?  You 
know  the  effect  she  used  to  make." 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  asked  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  Oh,  he  looked  down  at  her  as  if  he  were  shy. 
Then  he  said  — '  You've  a  long  memory,  Madala  ! ' 
Yes,  he  called  her  Madala  from  the  first.  It  an- 
noyed me.  She  said  — *  Oh,  do  you  remember  when 
Mother  was  so  ill  once?  You  were  very  kind  to 
me  then.'  Then  she  said  something  which  amazed 
me.  I'd  known  her  for  two  years  before  she  told 
me  anything  about  that  Sylvania  tragedy,  but  to 
him  she  spoke  at  once.  *  They're  dead,'  she  said, 
«  Mother  and  Father.  They're  drowned.  There 
isn't  anyone.'  But  her  voice !  It  made  me  quite 
nervous.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  break  down. 
He  said,  with  a  stiff  sort  of  effort — *  Yes.  I 
heard.'  That  was  all.  Nothing  sympathetic. 
He  just  stood  and  looked  at  her." 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Howe  impatiently. 

"  Oh  —  nothing  else.  I  finished  picking  up  the 
sandwiches.  She  introduced  me,  but  I  don't  think 
43 


LEGEND 

he  realized  who  I  was.  It  annoyed  me  very  much 
that  she  insisted  on  his  eating  lunch  with  us.  As 
I  said  to  her  afterwards,  it  wasn't  suitable.  Buns 
in  a  bag!  But  there  he  sat  on  a  damp  stone  (he 
gave  Madala  his  overcoat  to  sit  upon)  perfectly 
contented.  I  confess  I  wasn't  cordial.  But  he  no- 
ticed nothing.  Obtuse !  That  was  how  I  summed 
him  up  from  the  first  —  obtuse !  And  no  conver- 
sation whatever.  Madala  did  the  talking.  I  be- 
lieve she  asked  after  every  cat  and  dog  for  twenty 
miles  round.  And  her  lack  of  reticence  to  a  com- 
parative stranger  was  amazing.  She  told  him 
more  about  herself  in  half  an  hour  than  she  had 
told  me  in  four  years.  But  she  was  an  unaccount- 
able creature." 

"  Yes,  that's  just  it.  One  never  knew  what 
Madala  would  do  next,  and  yet  when  she'd  done  it, 
one  said  — *  Of  course !  Just  what  Madala  would 
do ! '  But  it  wasn't  like  her  to  neglect  you,  Nita !  " 

"  Oh,  she  noticed  after  a  time.  She  began  to 
be  uncomfortable.  I  —  withdrew  myself,  as  it 
were.  You  know  my  way.  She  didn't  like  that. 
She  tried  —  I  will  say  that  for  her  —  she  did  try 
to  direct  the  conversation  towards  my  subjects. 
Useless,  of  course.  He  was,  not  illiterate  —  no, 
you  can't  say  illiterate  —  but  curiously  unintel- 
lectual.  Socialism  now  —  somehow  we  got  on  to 
socialism.  That  roused  him.  I  must  say,  though 
he  expressed  himself  clumsily,  that  he  had  ideas. 
44 


LEGEND 

But  so  limited.  He  had  never  heard  of  Marx. 
Bernard  Shaw  was  barely  a  name  to  him.  Social- 
ism —  his  socialism  —  when  we  disentangled  it, 
was  only  another  word  for  the  proper  feeding  of 
the  local  infants  —  drains  —  measles  —  the  village 
schools.  Beyond  that  he  was  mute.  But  Madala 
chimed  in  with  details  of  American  slum  life,  and 
roused  him  at  once.  They  grew  quite  eloquent. 
But  not  one  word,  if  you  please,  of  her  own  work. 
Anything  and  everything  but  her  work.  He  did 
ask  her  what  she  was  doing.  '  Oh,'  said  she  in  an 
offhand  way,  *  I  scribble.  Stories.'  And  then  — 
*  It  earns  money,  and  it  kills  time.'  Yes,  that's 
exactly  how  she  put  it.  '  Madala ! '  I  said,  '  that's 
not  the  spirit  — ;  I'd  never  heard  her  use  such  a 
tone  before.  She  had  such  high  ideals  of  art.  It 
jarred  me.  I  thought  that  she  ought  to  have 
known  better.  But  she  looked  at  me  in  such  a 
curious  way  —  defiant  almost.  She  said  — '  It's 
my  own  spirit,  Nita.  Oh,  let  me  have  a  holiday ! ' 
And  at  that  up  she  jumped  and  left  us  sitting 
there,  and  wandered  off  to  the  stile  and  was  over  it 
in  a  second.  We  sat  still.  The  hedge  hid  her. 
Then  we  heard  her  call  — '  Cowslips !  Oh,  cow- 
slips!' I  thought  he  would  go  when  she  called, 
but  he  sat  where  he  was,  listening.  It  was  one  of 
those  hot,  still  days,  you  know.  There  was  a  sort 
of  spell  on  things.  There  were  bees  about.  We 
heard  a  cart  roll  up  the  road.  I  wanted  to  get  up 
45 


LEGEND 

and  talk,  make  some  kind  of  diversion,  and  yet  I 
couldn't.  We  heard  her  call  again  — *  Hundreds 
of  cowslips !  I'm  going  to  make  a  cowslip  ball.' 
Her  voice  sounded  far  away,  but  very  clear.  And 
there  was  a  scent  of  may  in  the  air,  and  dust  — 
an  intoxicating  smell.  It  made  me  quite  sleepy. 
It  was  just  as  if  time  stood  still.  Three  o'clock's 
a  drowsy  time,  I  suppose.  And  he  never  stirred  — 
just  sat  there  stupidly.  But  I  was  too  sleepy  to 
be  bored  with  him.  Presently  back  she  came. 
She  had  picked  up  her  skirt  and  her  petticoat 
showed  —  it  was  that  lavender  silk  you  gave  her, 
Lila.  So  unsuitable,  you  know,  on  those  dirty 
roads.  And  her  skirt  was  full  of  cowslips.  She 
was  just  a  dark  figure  against  the  sky  until  she 
was  close  to  us ;  but  then,  I  thought  that  she  looked 
pretty,  extremely  pretty.  Bright  cheeks,  you 
know,  and  her  eyes  so  blue 

"  Grey  — "  said  Mr.  Flood,  "  the  grey  eyes  of  a 
goddess." 

"  They  looked  blue,  and  she  didn't  look  like  a 
goddess.  She  looked  like  a  little  girl.  Well,  there 
she  stood,  with  her  grey  skirt  and  her  lavender  silk, 
and  her  cowslips  —  you  know  they  have  a  sweet 
smell,  cowslips,  a  very  sweet  smell  —  and  tumbled 
them  all  down  on  the  tombstone.  Then  she  wanted 
string.  Carey  seemed  to  wake  up  at  that.  He'd 
been  looking  at  her  as  if  he  had  dreamed  her.  He 
produced  string.  He  was  that  sort  of  man. 
Then  she  made  her  cowslip  ball.  I  held  one  end  of 
46 


LEGEND 

the  string  and  he  held  the  other,  and  she  nipped 
the  stalks  off  the  flowers  and  strung  them  athwart 
it.  That  is  the  way  to  make  a  cowslip  ball." 

"  Nita,  I  love  you !  "  cried  Miss  Howe  for  the 
second  time,  and  the  others  laughed. 

She  stopped.     She  stiffened. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Ne'  mind !     Go  on !  " 

She  said  offendedly  — 

"  There's  nothing  more  to  tell.  We  got  up  and 
came  away." 

But  as  we  sat  silently  by,  still  waiting,  the  story- 
teller crept  back  into  her  face. 

"  Oh,  yes  — "  up  went  her  forefinger.  "  It  was 
then  that  it  happened.  We  went  stumbling  over 
the  graves,  round  to  the  east  end,  to  see  the  lepers' 
window,  a  particularly  interesting  one.  Ruskin 
mentions  it.  Yes,  Carey  came  with  us.  There's 
a  little  bit  of  bare  lawn  under  the  window  before 
the  stones  begin  again,  and  as  we  crossed  it  Ma- 
dak  gave  a  kind  of  shuddering  start.  He  said  — 
'Cold?'  smiling  at  her.  She  shivered  again,  in 
spite  of  herself  as  it  were,  for  she'd  been  joking 
and  laughing,  and  said  — '  Someone  must  be  walk- 
ing over  my  grave.'  And  at  that  he  gave  her  such 
a  look,  and  said  loudly  in  a  great  rough  voice  — 
'  Rubbish !  don't  talk  such  rubbish ! '  Really,  you 
know,  the  tone !  And  I  thought  to  myself  then  as 
I've  thought  many  times  since  — *  At  heart  the 
man's  a  bully  —  that's  what  the  man  is.'  But  Ma- 
47 


LEGEND 

dala  laughed.  We  didn't  stay  long  after  that. 
The  window  was  a  disappointment  —  restored. 
There  was  nothing  further  to  see  and  Madala  was 
quite  right  —  it  was  chilly.  The  sky  had  clouded 
over  and  there  was  a  wind.  I  thought  it  time  to 
go.  Madala  made  no  objection.  She  had  grown 
curiously  quiet.  She  tired  easily,  you  know.  And 
he  didn't  say  another  word.  Quite  time  to  go. 
I  thought  we  might  try  for  the  earlier  train,  so 
we  went  off  at  last  in  a  hurry.  No,  he  didn't 
come  with  us :  we  shook  hands  at  the  gate.  And 
when  I  looked  back  a  minute  later  he  had  turned 
away.  We  caught  our  train." 

There  was  a  little  pause  that  Miss  Howe  ended. 

"  Queer !  "  she  said. 

Anita  stared  at  them.     Her  hands  twitched. 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  practical  person,  but  — '  You're 
walking  on  my  grave,'  she  said.  And  there  or 
thereabouts,  I  suppose,  she'll  lie." 

"  Coincidence,"  said  Mr.  Flood  quickly. 

"  Of  course.  I  never  thought  of  it  again.  Nor 
did  Madala  for  that  matter,  though  she  was  quiet 
enough  in  the  train.  There  she  sat,  looking  out  of 
the  window  and  smiling  to  herself.  But  then  she 
was  always  like  that  after  any  little  excitement, 
very  quiet  for  an  hour,  re-living  it  —  literally.  I 
think,  you  know,"  she  hesitated,  "  that  that  was 
the  secret  of  her  genius.  Her  genius  was  her 

memory.  She  liked  whatever  she  looked  on " 

4-8 


LEGEND 

"  And  her  looks  were  certainly  everywhere,"  said 
the  blonde  lady  in  her  drawling  voice. 

"  Just  so.  But  it  didn't  end  there.  She  remem- 
bered. She  remembered  uncannily.  She  was  like 
a  child  picking  up  pebbles  from  the  beach  every 
holiday,  and  spending  all  the  rest  of  its  year  pol- 
ishing. She  turned  them  into  jewels.  The  proc- 
ess used  to  fascinate  me  —  professionally,  you 
know.  You  could  see  her  mind  at  work  on  some 
trifling  incident,  fidgeting  with  it,  twisting  it, 
dropping  it,  picking  it  up  again,  till  one  wearied. 
And  then  a  year  later,  or  two  years,  or  three  years, 
or  ten  years  maybe,  you'll  pick  up  a  novel  or  a 
story,  and  there  you'll  find  it,  cut,  graved,  polished, 
set  in  diamonds,  but  —  the  same  pebble,  if  one 
has  the  wit  to  see." 

"Well,  what  did  she  say?"  Miss  Howe  cut 
through  the  theory  impatiently. 

Anita  frowned.     She  disliked  being  hurried. 

"  Oh,  that  day?  Very  little.  I  was  surprised. 
She  usually  enjoyed  pouring  herself  out  to  me. 
But  no,  she  just  sat  and  smiled.  It  irritated  me. 
*  What  is  it,  Madala?  '  I  said  at  last.  She  stared 
at  me  as  if  she  had  never  seen  me  before.  '  I  don't 
know,'  she  said  in  her  vague  way.  And  then  — 
'  Wasn't  it  a  lovely  day?  '  I  waited.  I  knew  she 
would  go  on  sooner  or  later.  Presently  she  said  — 
'  That  stone  we  sat  on  was  damp.  He  was  quite 
right.'  Then  she  said,  thinking  aloud  as  it  were : — 
49 


LEGEND 

*  You  know,  if  a  man  has  a  really  pleasant  voice, 
I  like  it  better  than  women's  voices.  It's  so 
steady.'  And  then  — '  What  did  you  think  of  him, 
Anita?'" 

Miss  Howe  chuckled. 

"And  you  said?" 

"  Oh,  I  said  what  I  could.  I  didn't  want  to  hurt 
her  feelings.  It  was  so  obvious  that  the  place  and 
everyone  in  it  was  beglamoured  for  her.  I  said 
that  he  seemed  a  worthy,  harmless  person,  or  some- 
thing to  that  effect.  I  forget  exactly  how  I 
phrased  it  —  I  was  tactful,  of  course.  Oh,  I  re- 
member, I  said  that  she  ought  to  put  him  into  a 
book  —  that  the  old  country  doctors  were  disap- 
pearing, like  the  farmers  and  the  parsons.  I'm 
sure  I  appeared  interested.  But  all  she  said  was 
— '  Old  ?  He's  not  old.  Would  you  call  him  old  ?  ' 
'  That  was  a  figure  of  speech,'  I  said.  '  I  was 
thinking  of  the  type.  But  all  the  same  you  can't 
describe  him  as  young,  Madala.'  *  Oh,  he's  not  a 
boy,'  she  said.  '  No  one  ever  said  he  was  a  boy.' 
She  didn't  say  any  more.  But  just  as  we  were 
getting  out  at  Victoria  she  cried  — '  My  cow- 
slips !  Anita,  my  cowslips !  I've  forgotten  my 
cowslip  ball.'  I  told  her  that  it  wouldn't  have 
lasted  anyway,  with  the  stalks  nipped  off  so 
short.  But  she  looked  as  if  she  had  lost  a 
kingdom." 

"  I  believe  I  know  that  cowslip  ball."  Miss 
Howe  looked  amused.  "  A  cowslip  ball,  anyway. 
50 


LEGEND 

She  had  one  sent  to  her  once  when  I  was  there. 
I  thought  it  was  from  her  slum  children." 

"  Yes,  he  sent  it  on."  My  cousin  went  on 
quickly  with  her  own  story.  "  How  he  knew  the 
address  puzzled  me.  Her  publishers  wouldn't  have 
given  it  and  I  know  she  didn't." 

"  Telephone  book,"  said  the  Baxter  girl,  as  one 
experienced. 

"  Ah,  possibly.  I  went  round  to  her  that  morn- 
ing, and  —  yes,  you  were  there,  Lila,"  she  con- 
ceded, "  for  I  remember  I  wondered  how  Madala 
could  compose  herself  to  work  with  anyone  else  in 
the  room.  I  always  left  her  to  herself  when  she 
stayed  with  me." 

"  She  didn't  mind  me,"  said  Miss  Howe  firmly. 

"  She  always  said  that  she  didn't,  I  know.  And 
of  course  I  know  that  it  is  possible  to  withdraw 
oneself  as  it  were,  but  I  confess  I  disapproved. 
Her  room  was  a  regular  clearing-house  in  those 
days.  Oh,  not  you  particularly,  Lila,  but " 

"  You  came  in  yourself  that  morning,  didn't 
you?  "  said  Miss  Howe  very  softly  and  sweetly. 

"  I  was  telling  you  so.  And  what  did  I  find? 
Her  desk  littered  over  with  string  and  paper  and 
moss  and  damp  cardboard,  and  that  story  Hooper 
published  (it  had  been  freshly  typed  only  the  day 
before)  watering  into  purple  under  my  eyes,  while 
she  sat  and  gloated  over  those  wretched  flowers. 
'  Madala ! '  I  said,  '  your  manuscript !  Really, 
Madala ! ' " 

51 


LEGEND 

"  And  Madala  — "  Miss  Howe  began  to  laugh  — 
"  Oh,  I  remember  now." 

"  What  did  Madala  say?  "  demanded  the  Baxter 
girl. 

"It  wasn't  like  her."  Anita  fidgeted.  "She 
Icnew  how  I  disliked  the  modern  manner." 

"  But  she  said,"  Miss  Howe  caught  it  up  — 

"  I  don't  know  what  possessed  her,"  said  my 
cousin  with  a  rush.  "  She  actually  stamped  her 
foot  at  me.  Yes,  she  did,  and  then  held  out  her 
wretched  posy  and  said  — '  Oh,  damn  the  manu- 
script, Nita!  Smell!'" 

"  What  did  Nita  do?  "  enquired  the  blonde  lady 
softly  of  Miss  Howe. 

"  Sniffed,"  Mr.  Flood  struck  in.  "  Obviously ! 
Satisfied  Madala  and  relieved  her  own  feelings. 
That  is  called  tact." 

"  And  just  then,  you  know,"  Miss  Howe  glanced 
over  her  shoulder  and  lowered  her  voice,  "  he  came 
in." 

"Kent?"  The  lady  with  Mr.  Flood  did  not 
lower  her  voice.  I  believe  she  wanted  him  to  hear. 
She  was  like  a  curious  child  poking  at  a  hurt 
beastie.  Her  smile  was  infantine  as  she  looked 
across  at  him.  But  the  man  at  the  window  never 
stirred. 

"  Sh !  "     Miss  Howe  frowned  at  her.     And  then, 

still  whispering — "Yes,  don't  you  remember?  he 

had  his  studio  in  the  same  block  all  that  year.     He 

always  came  across  to  Madala  when  he  wanted  a 

52 


LEGEND 

sardine  tin  opened,  or  change  for  his  gas,  or  some- 
one to  sit  to  him." 

"  Someone  was  saying  that  he  couldn't  keep  a 
model."  Mr.  Flood  glanced  at  them  in  turn. 

Miss  Howe  flushed  surprisingly. 

"  It's  not  that.  You  ought  to  know  better, 
Jasper.  It's  only  that  he's  exigeant  —  never 
knows  how  the  time  goes,  and  "  (she  lowered  her 
voice  still  more),  "and  Madala  spoilt  him.  She 
could  sit  by  the  hour  looking  like  a  Madonna,  and 
getting  all  her  own  head-work  done,  and  never  stir- 
ring a  hair.  Of  course  he  doesn't  like  the  shilling 
an  hour  type  after  her." 

"  I  know,  I  know !  The  explanation  is  quite 
unnecessary."  He  smiled  and  waved  his  hand. 

"  Then  why ?  "  She  was  still  flushed  and 

annoyed. 

"  One  gets  at  other  people's  views.  I  merely 
wondered  how  the  —  er  —  partnership  appeared 
to  your  —  er  —  intelligence.  Now  I  know." 

"  She  did  spoil  him."  Anita  disregarded  them. 
"  The  time  she  wasted  on  him !  In  he  came,  you 
know,  that  day,  and  she  went  to  meet  him  with  the 
cowslips  still  in  her  hand,  and  shielding  her  eyes 
from  the  sun.  That  room  of  hers  got  all  the  morn- 
ing sun." 

"  What  did  she  wear  —  the  blue  dress?  "  The 
Baxter  girl  was  like  a  child  being  told  a  story. 

"  I  forget.  Anyway  he  stood  looking  her  up 
and  down  till  she  reddened  and  began  to  laugh  at 
53 


LEGEND 

him.  And  then  he  said  — '  And  cowslips  too  f 
What  luck !  Come  along !  Come  along!  '  i  Oh, 
my  good  man ! '  I  said,  '  she's  in  the  middle  of  her 
writing!'  But  it  was  useless  to  expostulate.  He 
wanted  her  and  so  she  went.  I  heard  him  as  he 
dragged  her  off.  *  Madala,  I've  got  such  a  no- 
tion ! '  No,  it  was  the  great  fault  of  her  charac- 
ter, I  consider,  that  she  could  never  deny  anyone, 
not  even  for  her  work's  sake.  Still,  I  suppose  one 
had  to  forgive  it  in  that  case,  for  that  was  the  be- 
ginning, you  know,  of  The  Spring  Song.  She  is 
painted  just  as  she  stood  there  that  morning, 
literally  gilded  over  with  sunshine,  and  the  flowers 
in  her  hands." 

"It's  the  best  thing  he's  ever  done,  isn't  it?" 
said  the  Baxter  girl. 

"Best  thing?  It's  a  master-piece.  It's  Ma- 
dala Grey." 

"  When  is  he  going  to  show  it?  "  asked  Mr.  Flood. 

Anita  shrugged. 

"  Heaven  knows !  He  insists  that  it  isn't  fin- 
ished. I  believe  he  sits  and  prays  over  it.  He 
was  annoyed  that  Madala  took  me  there  one  day. 
You  know  how  touchy  he  is." 

"  He  won't  show  it  now,"  said  the  blonde  lady. 

"  Why  not  ?  Why  not  ?  "  Anita  hovered,  on  the 
pounce,  like  a  cat  over  a  bowl  of  goldfish,  and 
like  a  fish  the  blonde  lady  glided  out  of  reach. 

"  And  she  asks !  "  she  appealed  to  the  others. 

Anita  frowned. 

54 


LEGEND 

"  You're  cryptic." 

"Well,  wasn't  there  a  certain  —  rivalry?  You 
should  have  a  .fellow-feeling." 

"  Oh  — "  she  resented  quickly,  "  Kent  always 
wanted  to  keep  her  to  himself,  if  you  mean  that." 

The  blonde  lady  smiled. 

"  And  now  he  keeps  her  to  himself.  I  mean  just 
that.  I  go  by  your  account,  of  course.  7  haven't 
glimpsed  The  Spring  Song." 

"  So  that  started  it."  The  Baxter  girl  mused 
aloud.  "  I  think  that's  romantic  now  —  to  make 
a  famous  picture  and  to  pick  up  one's  husband,  all 
in  twenty-four  hours." 

"  '  Pick  up  ! '  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  —  fall  in  love." 

"•Fall  in  love!'" 

"  Nita,  don't  trample."  Miss  Howe  threw  the 
Baxter  girl  a  cigarette. 

"  I  only  mean  —  it  was  romantic,  meeting  like 
that  so  long  ago  and  nobody  knowing  a  word  until 
just  before  they  were  married,  except  you,  Miss 
Serle.  And  I  don't  believe  you  guessed  ?  "  She 
questioned  her  with  defiant  eyebrows. 

"  How  could  I  guess  what  never  happened  ? 
'  In  love ! '  I  suppose  it  deceived  some  good 
folks." 

"  It  wasn't  so  long  ago,"  Miss  Howe  soothered 
them.  She  had  a  funny  little  way  of  slipping  peo- 
ple into  another  subject  if  she  thought  that  they 
sounded  quarrelsome.  *  Let's  be  aomf ortable ! ' 
55 


LEGEND 

was  written  all  over  her.  And  yet  she  could 
scratch.  I  think  that  a  great  many  women  are 
like  Miss  Howe. 

"  Long  ago?  Of  course  not !  "  Anita  picked  it 
up  at  once.  "  How  long  is  it?  A  year?  Eight- 
een months?  April,  wasn't  it?  She  wrote  The 
Resting-place  in  the  next  three  months.  Scamped. 
I  shall  always  say  so.  She  was  three  years  over 
Ploughed  Fields.  Yes,  April  began  it.  The 
Resting-place  was  out  for  the  Christmas  sales. 
She  married  him  at  Easter.  And  now  it's  Novem- 
ber. The  year's  not  gone.  But  Madala  Grey  is 
gone." 

"  Where?  "  said  the  Baxter  girl  intensely. 

"  Don't !  "  said  Miss  Howe. 

But  the  Baxter  girl  looked  as  if  she  couldn't  stop 
herself. 

"  We  —  we  put  her  into  the  past  tense  —  d'you 
notice  how  easily  we're  doing  it  already?  —  but 
—  is  she  less  alive  to  you,  less  lovable,  less  Madala 
Grey  to  you,  because  of  a  telegram  and  a  funeral 
service?  is  she?  " 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Howe.  "  If  you  put  it  like 
that  —  no." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Flood.  "  When  you  put  it  like 
that  —  yes." 

"  She  must  be  somewhere,"  argued  the  Baxter 
girl.  "  She  can't  just  stop." 

"  Why  not?  "  said  Mr.  Flood,  with  his  bored 
smile. 

56 


LEGEND 

"  She  can't.  I  feel  it,"  she  said  with  her  hand 
at  her  heart  and  her  large  eyes  on  him. 

"  I  don't,"  he  said  to  her,  and  he  lost  his  smile. 
"  <  Dust  to  dust '  " 

The  woman  behind  him  moved  restlessly. 

"  Jasper,  dear!     How  trite !  " 

"But  the  spirit?"  said  the  Baxter  girl,  "the 
spirit?" 

Nobody  answered.  The  little  blue  flames  on  the 
hearth  capered  and  said  *  Chik-chik ! '  Anita  shiv- 
ered. 

"  The  room's  getting  cold,"  she  said  sharply. 
And  then  — "  Jenny,  is  that  door  open?  There's 
such  a  draught." 

I  got  up  and  went  to  see.  But  the  door  was 
shut.  When  I  came  back  they  were  talking  again. 
Anita  was  answering  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  Yes,  I  stayed  there  once.  A  pretty  place. 
The  sort  of  place  she  would  choose.  All  roses. 
No  conveniences.  And  what  with  the  surgery  and 
the  socialism,  the  poor  seemed  to  be  always  with 
us.  Only  one  servant ' 

"  She  ought  to  have  made  money,"  said  Miss 
Howe. 

"  Oh,  the  first  two  books  were  a  succes  d'estime, 
I  wept  over  her  contract.  She  did  make  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  money  on  The  Resting-place. 
But  it  was  all  put  by  for  the  child.  She  told  me 
so.  He,  you  know,  a  poor  man's  doctor!  She 
told  me  that  too  —  flung  it  at  me.  She  had  an  ex- 
57 


LEGEND 

travagant  way  of  talking,  manner  more  than  any- 
thing, of  course,  but  to  hear  her  you  would  almost 
think  she  was  proud  of  the  life  they  led.  She  was 
always  unpractical." 

"  I'd  like  to  have  gone  down  there  once,"  said 
Miss  Howe.  "  If  I'd  known  —  heigh-ho  !  " 

"I  — I  wished  I  hadn't  gone,"  said  Anita 
slowly.  "  It  wasn't  a  success." 

"  The  husband,  I  suppose,"  the  Baxter  girl 
hinted  delicately. 

"  No,  I  hardly  saw  him.  It  was  Madala  her- 
self. Changed.  Affectionate  —  she  was  always 

that  to  me  but 1  remember  sitting  with  her 

once.  We  had  been  talking,  about  Aphra  Behn  I 
believe,  and  she  had  grown  flushed  and  had  begun 
to  stammer  a  little.  You  know  her  way?  " 

"I  know."  The  Baxter  girl  leaned  forward 
eagerly. 

"  And  she  was  tracing  a  parallel  between  the 
development  of  the  novel  and  the  growth  of  the 
woman's  movement  —  her  old  vein.  Brilliant,  she 
was.  And  all  at  once  she  stopped  and  began  star- 
ing in  front  of  her.  You  know  that  trick  she  had 
of  frowning  out  her  thoughts.  I  was  careful  not 
to  interrupt.  I  knew  something  big  was  coming. 
She  could  be  —  prophetic,  sometimes.  At  last  she 
said  in  a  worried  sort  of  way  — *  I've  a  dreadful 
feeling  that  we're  out  of  coffee  and  it's  early  clos- 
ing.' No,  I'm  not  exaggerating  —  her  very  words. 
And  then  some  long  rigmarole  about  Carey's  appe- 
58 


LEGEND 

tite,  and  that  if  she  made  the  coffee  black  strong 
she  could  persuade  him  to  take  more  milk  with  it. 
Oh  —  pitiful !  And  in  a  moment  she'd  dashed  off 
on  a  three  mile  walk  to  the  next  village  where  there 
was  a  grocer  that  did  open  on  Wednesdays.  Oh, 
it  was  most  pathetic.  It  made  me  realize  the  effect 
that  he  was  having  on  her  —  stultifying !  I  al- 
ways did  dislike  him." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  Just  so  —  you  don't  know.  Naturally,  you 
were  not  so  intimate  with  Madala.  Well,  that 
very  afternoon,  I  remember,  he  came  in  at  tea-time. 
That  was  unusual :  he  was  generally  late  for  seven- 
thirty  dinner,  and  then  he  didn't  change.  I  used 
to  wonder  how  Madala  allowed  it.  Well,  as  I  was 
telling  you,  he  came  in,  stamping  through  the  hall, 
calling  to  her,  and  when  he  opened  the  drawing- 
room  door  and  found  that  she  was  out,  you  should 
have  seen  his  look !  Sour  t  No  other  word  1  And 
off  he  went  at  once  to  meet  her,  on  his  bicycle, 
though  I  was  prepared  to  give  him  tea.  They 
didn't  come  back  for  hours.  In  fact  I  had  gone 
up  to  change.  I  saw  them  from  the  window,  com- 
ing up  the  drive.  And  there  was  Madala  Grey, 
perched  on  his  bicycle,  with  a  great  bunch  of  that 
white  parsley  that  grows  in  the  hedges,  and  a 
string  bag  dangling  down,  while  he  steadied  her, 
and  both  of  them  talking!  and  as  he  helped  her  off, 
she  kissed  him  —  in  front  of  the  kitchen  windows. 
And,  if  you  please,  not  a  word  of  apology  to  me. 
59 


LEGEND 

All  she  said  was  —  why  hadn't  I  seen  that  he  had 
some  tea  before  he  went  after  her?  I  think  it's  the 
only  time  I've  ever  seen  Madala  annoyed.  No, 
you  can't  say  the  marriage  improved  her."  She 
paused.  "  It  was  so  unlike  her,"  she  meditated, 
"as  if  I  could  help  it!  You  know,  I'd  always 
thought  her  so  considerate.  Carey's  influence,  of 
course.  Oh,"  she  cried  out  suddenly  and  angrily, 
"  I've  got  nothing  against  Carey.  I'm  not  preju- 
diced. But  if  he'd  been  the  sort  of  man  one  could 

approve  —  someone "  Her  eye  wandered 

from  Kent  Rehan  to  Mr.  Flood  — "  but  he  was 
dragging  her  down " 

Miss  Howe  shook  her  head. 

"  Anita,  you're  wrong.  I've  only  met  him  a 
couple  of  times  but  I  liked  what  I  saw  of  him.  An 
honest,  straightforward  sort  of  person.  Oh,  not 
clever,  of  course.  He'd  have  bored  me  in  a 
week " 

"Ah?  "  said  the  woman  behind  Mr.  Flood. 

"  Oh,  yes,  dull  —  distinctly.  But  I  had  the  im- 
pression that  if  I'd  been  one  of  his  patients  I 
should  have  done  everything  he  told  me  to  do." 

Anita  shrugged. 

"  Oh,  I've  no  doubt  he  had  every  virtue,  but  it's 
idle  to  pretend  that  he  made  any  attempt  to  appre- 
ciate Madala  Grey." 

"  You  don't  suggest  that  the  man  didn't  love  his 
wife,  do  you?  "  said  Miss  Howe  in  her  downright 
way. 


LEGEND 

"  I  suggest  nothing.  But  the  fact  remains  —  I 
give  it  for  what  it  is  worth  —  but  the  fact  does 
remain  that  John  Carey  has  never  read  one  of  her 
books  —  not  one !  " 

"What?"  The  Baxter  girl's  mouth  opened 
and  stayed  so. 

"  You  don't  intend  to  say "  began  Mr. 

Flood. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Miss  Howe  contemptu- 
ously. 

"Why  not?  I've  known  a  man  jealous  of  his 
wife  before  now.  I  suppose  he  knew  enough  to 
know  that  she  had  the  brains."  The  blonde  lady 
was  smiling. 

Anita  shook  her  head  reluctantly. 

"Jealousy?  H'm  —  it  might  have  been,  of 
course.  But  I  didn't  get  that  impression.  I  be- 
lieve that  it  was  a  perfectly  genuine  lack  of  in- 
terest." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  How  d'you  know 
he  didn't?  It's  not  a  thing  he'd  own  to.  Who 
told  you?" 

"  Madala.  Madala  herself.  She  used  to  make 
a  joke  of  it." 

"  She  never  showed  when  she  was  hurt,"  said 
the  Baxter  girl  emotionally. 

"  Yes,  but  it  almost  seemed  as  if  she  were  not 
hurt,  as  if  her  —  her  sensitiveness,  her  better  feel- 
ings, had  been  blunted.  I've  known  her  use  it  as  a 
weapon  almost,"  said  Anita  conscientiously  recol- 
61 


LEGEND 

lecting.  "  He  —  that  annoyed  me  so  —  he  was 
very  peremptory  with  her  sometimes,  most  rude  in 
lis  manner.  Of  course,  you  know,  she  was  dreamy. 
Not  that  that  excused  him  for  a  moment.  I  re- 
member a  regular  scene ' 

"  Before  you?  "  Miss  Howe  cast  instant  doubt 
upon  it. 

"  My  room  was  next  to  theirs.  I  could  hear 
them  through  the  wall.  I  can  assure  you  that  he 
stormed  at  her  in  a  most  un gentlemanly  way  — 

"What  about?"  said  the  Baxter  girl  breath- 
lessly. 

"  Something  about  his  razors.  A  parcel  had 
come  by  the  early  post,  and  just  because  she  had 
cut  the  string  —  but  I  couldn't  follow  it  all.  He 
was  a  man  who  was  easily  irritated  by  trifles. 
Well,  as  I  say,  after  he  had  raged  at  her  for  five 
minutes  or  more,  till  I  could  have  gone  in  and 
spoken  to  him  myself,  all  that  that  patient  woman 
said,  was  — '  Darling,  have  you  begun  Eden  Walls 
yet? '  I  tell  you  the  man  never  said  another 
word." 

"  He  didn't  prevent  her  writing,  did  he?  "  said 
Miss  Howe. 

"  There's  no  doubt  that  he  discouraged  her.  He 
was  selfish.  It  was  his  wretched  doctoring  all  day 
long  —  and  you  know  how  sensitive  Madala  was. 
I  did  persuade  her  to  do  some  work  while  I  was 
staying  with  them,  but  I  soon  saw  that  it  was 


LEGEND 

labour  thrown  away.  Her  heart  wasn't  in  it. 
When  it  wasn't  Carey  it  was  the  baby  clothes. 
For  the  sake  of  her  reputation,"  her  voice  hard- 
ened, "  it's  as  well  that  she  has  died  when  she  has." 

"  Anita !  " 

"  I  mean  it."  She  was  quick  and  fierce.  "  Do 
you  think  it  was  a  little  thing  for  me  to  see  that 
pearl  of  great  price  —  oh,  not  Madala  Grey  t  I 
grew  to  hate  her  almost,  that  new  Madala  Grey  — 
but  the  gift  within  her,  her  great,  blazing  genius  — 
flung  away,  trampled  on " 

Miss  Howe  turned  her  head  in  slow  denial. 

"  No,  Anita  !  Not  genius.  Charm,  if  you  like. 
Talent,  as  much  as  you  please.  But  Madala  Grey 
wasn't  a  genius,  and  she  knew  it." 

Anita  flung  up  her  head. 

"  She  will  be  when  I've  done  with  her.  She 
will  be  when  I've  written  the  Life." 

"  Ah,  the  poor  child ! "  said  Great-aunt  start- 
lingly. 

Anita  never  heeded.  She  was  wrapt  away  in 
some  cold  passion  of  her  own,  a  passion  that 
amazed  me.  I  had  always  thought  of  her  as  what 
she  looked,  an  ordered,  steely  woman,  all  brain  and 
will ;  yet  now  of  a  sudden  she  revealed  herself,  a 
creature  convulsed,  writhing  in  flames.  But  they 
were  cold  flames.  Cold  fire,  is  there  such  a  thing? 
Ice  burns.  There  is  phosphorus.  There  is  the 
light  of  stars.  I  know  what  I  mean  if  only  I  had 


LEGEND 

the  words.  Star-fire  —  that's  it.  She  was  like  a 
dead  star.  She  warmed  no  one,  she  only  burned 
herself  up. 

It  was  the  impression  of  a  moment.  When  I 
looked  again  it  was  as  if  I  had  been  withdrawn 
from  a  telescope.  She  was  herself  once  more. 
The  volcano  had  shrunk  to  a  diamond  twinkle,  to  a 
tiny,  gesticulating  creature  with  a  needle  tongue. 
It  was  bewildering:  while  I  listened  to  her  I  was 
still  thinking — 'Yes,  but  which  is  Anita?  Dia- 
mond or  star?  What  makes  the  glitter?  Frost 
or  flame?  ' 

But  that  blonde  woman  in  the  shadows  went  off 
into  noiseless  laughter  that  woke  the  dragons  and 
stirred  Mr.  Flood  to  an  upward  glance.  Then  he 
hunched  himself  closer  against  her  knees,  his  chin 
low  on  his  chest,  so  that  his  tiny  beard  and  mouth 
and  eyes  were  like  triangles  standing  on  their 
points.  The  pose  gave  him  a  glinting  air  of  mock- 
ery and  yet,  somehow,  you  did  not  feel  that  he  was 
amused.  You  only  felt  — '  Oh,  he's  practised  that 
at  a  looking-glass.' 

He  drawled  out  — 

"The  Life,  dear  lady?  Enlighten  our  dark- 
ness." 

"  That,"  came  the  murmur  behind  him,  "  is  pre- 
cisely what  she  is  going  to  do.  How  dense  you 
are,  Jasper ! " 

And  at  the  same  moment  from  Miss  Howe  — 
64 


LEGEND 

"Be  quiet,  you  two!  Tell  us,  Anita!  A  life 
of  her?  Is  that  it?  Ah,  well,  I  always  suspected 
your  note-book.  Did  she  know  you  Boswellized?  " 

"  She?  "  There  was  the  strangest  mixture  of 
scorn  and  admiration  in  the  voice.  "  As  if  one 
could  let  her  know !  That  was  the  difficulty  with 
Madala  Grey:  she  wouldn't  take  herself  seriously. 
She  had  — "  a  pause  and  a  search  for  the  correct 
word  — "  what  I  can  only  call  a  perverted  sense  of 
humour.  If  she'd  known  that  I  —  noted  things, 
she'd  have  been  quite  capable  of  falsifying  all  her 
opinions,  misrepresenting  herself  completely,  just 
to  —  throw  me  out,  as  it  were.  Not  maliciously, 
I  don't  mean  that.  But  she  teases,"  finished  Anita 
petulantly.  "  She  will  do  it.  She  laughs  at  the 
wrong  things.  Of  course  she's  young  still." 

"  Yes,  she's  young  —  now.  She  stays  young 
now.  She  gains  that  at  least,"  said  the  woman  in 
the  shadows. 

Anita  made  a  quick  little  sound,  half  titter  and 
half  gasp. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried  —  and  her  voice  was  as  grey  as 
her  face  — "  I  forgot.  Do  you  know  —  I  forgot ! 
It's  going  to  be  ghastly.  I  believe  I  shall  always 
be  forgetting." 

I  glanced  up  at  Kent  Rehan.  It  made  me  real- 
ize that  I  had  been  listening  with  anxiety,  that  I 
was  afraid  of  their  expressive  sentences.  They 
had  words,  those  writing  people.  They  knew  what 
65 


LEGEND 

they  thought:  they  could  say  what  they  thought: 
and  what  they  thought  could  hurt.  I  didn't  want 
him  to  be  hurt.  I  said,  under  my  breath  — 

"  Oh,  why  do  you  stay  here?  They  aren't  your 
sort." 

But  he  had  heard  nothing.  He  was  poring  over 
the  long  tassel  of  the  blind,  weaving  it  into  a  six- 
strand  plait.  I  couldn't  help  watching  his  fingers. 
He  had  the  most  beautiful  hands  that  I've  ever 
seen  on  a  man.  They  looked  like  two  alive  and 
independent  creatures.  They  looked  as  if  they 
could  do  anything  they  chose,  whether  he  were 
there  to  superintend  or  not.  And  he  was  miles 
away.  I  was  glad.  Anita's  voice  was  rising  like 
a  dreary  wind. 

"  Just  that  is  so  strange.  All  the  time  I've 
known  her  I've  thought  of  her  in  the  past  tense. 
Her  moods,  her  ways,  her  actions,  were  finished 
things  to  me  —  chapters  of  the  Life.  I  wrote  her 
all  the  time.  But  now,  when  she  is  mine,  as  it 
were,  now  that  she  exists  only  in  my  notes  and  pa- 
pers and  remembrance  of  her,  now  it  comes  that 
I'm  shaken.  I  can't  think  of  her  as  a  sub- 
ject any  more.  I  shall  be  wanting  her  —  herself. 
I  can't  think  clearly.  It's  frightening  me,  the 
work  there  is  ahead  of  me.  Because  I've  got  to 
do  it  without  her.  She's  lying  dead  down  there 
in  Surrey  —  now  —  at  this  minute.  And  there's 
that  man  —  and  a  child.  One's  overwhelmed. 
It's  so  cruel.  The  only  creature  who  ever  cared 
66 


LEGEND 

for  me.  Think  of  Madala,  quite  still,  not  answer- 
ing, not  lighting  up  when  you  speak  to  her,  staring 
at  the  ceiling,  staring  at  her  own  coffin-lid.  In  two 
days  she'll  be  under  the  ground.  Do  you  ever 
think  what  that  means  —  burial  —  the  corruption 
-the " 

"  Stop  it,  Nita ! "  Miss  Howe's  movement 
blotted  out  my  cousin's  face.  "  Do  you  hear?  I 
can't  stand  it.  Here  —  drink  some  coffee.  Jas- 
per !  Say  something ! "  I  heard  the  coffee-cup 
dance  in  its  saucer. 

There  came  Aunt  Serle's  anxious  quaver  — 

"  Anita  !  Nita !  What's  the  matter,  my  dear? 
What's  the  matter  with  my  daughter?  " 

Nobody  answered.  She  was  like  a  tortoise  as 
she  poked  her  head  from  the  hood  of  her  chair. 

"  Jenny !  "    she    called    cautiously.     "  Jenny !  " 

I  slipped  across  the  room  to  her. 

"What's  it  about,  Jenny?  Eh?  Speak  up,  my 
dear!  Not  crying,  is  she?  Temper,  that's  it. 
Don't  say  I  said  so." 

"  It's  all  right,  Auntie.  She  —  they  —  it's  the 
bad  news.  It's  upset  them  all." 

"  Bad  news  ?  Fiddlesticks !  Temper,  I  call  it. 
Why  shouldn't  the  girl  get  married?  Not  much 
money,  but  a  pleasant  fellow.  Time  for  her  to 
settle.  I  said  to  her  — *  My  dear,  you  follow  your 
heart.'  But  Nita  tried  to  stop  it.  Nita  couldn't 
get  over  it.  Cried.  Temper.  That's  it.  Look 
at  her  now.  'Sh !  Don't  let  her  see  you." 
67 


LEGEND 

But  Anita  wasn't  looking  at  me  and  she  wasn't 
crying.  I  suppose  Great-aunt  must  have  known 
what  she  was  talking  about ;  but  it  wasn't  easy  to 
imagine  my  cousin  soft  and  red-eyed  like  that 
great,  good-natured  Miss  Howe.  Her  little  sharp 
face  looked  as  controlled  as  if  it  were  carved. 
Yet,  as  she  said  herself,  she  was  shaken.  That 
showed  in  the  jerkiness  of  her  movements,  the 
sharpening  of  her  voice,  in  the  break-up  of  her  ac- 
customed flow  of  words  into  staccato,  like  a  river 
that  has  come  to  some  rocks :  and  her  hands  had  a 
clock-work,  incessant  movement,  clutch-clutch,  fin- 
gers on  palm,  that  her  eyes  repeated.  They  were 
everywhere  at  once,  resting,  flitting,  settling  again, 
yet  seeing  nothing,  I  think,  while  she  listened  to 
Mr.  Flood  and  grew  more  irritated  with  every 
word. 

"  Why  bad  news  ?  "  said  Great-aunt  in  my  ear. 
"It's  a  son,  isn't  it?  " 

I  hesitated. 

"Oh,  Auntie,  didn't  you  hear?"  (She  had 
heard,  you  know.  I  had  seen  her  shrinking  back 
when  Anita  screamed  at  her,  with  that  dreadful 
shrinking  that  you  see  in  an  animal  threatened  by 
a  head-blow.  She  had  been  leaning  forward,  and 
eager.  She  must  have  heard.) 

"  Hear?  They  all  talk,"  she  quavered.  "  '  Be 
quiet,'  says  Anita.  Ah,  I've  spoilt  her.  Now 
Madala—  What's  the  time,  my  dear?  Why 
don't  she  come?  " 

68 


LEGEND 


"  Auntie  —  Auntie 


"  Eh?  "  she  said.     "  Why  don't  Madala  come?  " 

"  Auntie  —  you've  forgotten.     She's  been  ill." 

"  Ah  —  and  she'll  be  worse  before  she's  better," 
said  Great-aunt  briskly.  "  'Sh !  Listen  to  my 
daughter." 

We  listened:  at  least,  I  listened.  Great-aunt 
cocked  her  head  on  one  side,  still  as  a  bird,  for  a 
minute;  then,  like  a  bird,  she  was  re-assured  and 
fell  to  her  knitting  again. 

Anita  and  Mr.  Flood  were  quarrelling. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  Tell  me  that!  Is  anyone 
better  fitted?  Who  knows  as  much  about  her  as 
I  do?  Didn't  I  discover  her,  hacking  on  two 
pounds  a  week?  Didn't  I  recognize  what  she  was? 
Who  sent  her  to  Mitchell  and  Bent?  Who  intro- 
duced her  everywhere?  Who  bullied  her  into  writ- 
ing Ploughed  Fields?  Who  was  the  best  friend 
she  ever  had  —  even  if  I  didn't  make  the  parade  of 

being  fond  of  her  that Oh,  I've  no  patience ! 

What  would  the  world  know  of  Madala  Grey  if  it 
weren't  for  me?  " 

"  But  —  oh,  of  course  we  all  know  how  good  you 
were  to  her,  Miss  Serle,  indeed  I  can  guess  by  what 
you've  done  for  me —  "  began  the  Baxter  girl. 

Mr.  Flood's  tongue  tip  showed  between  his  red 
lips.  I  think  he  would  have  made  some  comment 
but  for  the  hand  pressing  on  his  shoulder. 

"  But ?  "  said  the  woman  behind  the  hand. 

"  I  only  mean  — *  genius  will  out,'  won't  it?  " 


LEGEND 

"  Genius?     Big  word !  "  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  Not  too  big."  The  Baxter  girl  reddened  en- 
thusiastically. 

"'Genius  will  out?'  Not  Madala  Grey's. 
She  didn't  know  she  had  any.  I  don't  believe  she 

ever  fully  realized Why,  it  was  the  merest 

chance  that  Eden  Walls  didn't  go  into  the  fire. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  —  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
me " 

"Ah  —  you!"  Miss  Howe  squared  up  to  her. 
"  Now  just  what  (among  friends)  have  you  stood 
to  gain?  Fond  of  her?  Oh  yes,  you  were,  Anita ! 
Don't  tell  me  !  But  in  spite  of  yourself,  eh?  But 
that  wasn't  what  you  were  after.  You  didn't  get 
the  pleasure  out  of  her  that  —  I  did,  for  instance. 
You  used  to  exhaust  Madala.  I've  seen  you  do  it. 
You  —  you  drained  her." 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  meant  to,"  said  Anita  with  her 
laugh.  "  Pleasure !  " 

"  And  she  thought  you  were  fond  of  her.  She 
used  to  flare  if  anyone  attacked  you.  Poor  Ma- 
dala ! " 

"Poor?  Why?  I  shall  give  it  all  back." 
Anita  gave  her  a  long  cool  look.  "I  —  I  hate 
debts,"  said  Anita. 

Miss  Howe  flushed  brightly. 

"  If  you  were  cursed  with  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment   "  She  broke  off  and  began  again.  "  If 

I  were  a  poor  devil  of  a  Bohemian  in  a  hole,  it's 
not  to  you  I'd  go  — • — " 

70 


LEGEND 

" —  twice !  "  said  Anita. 

Again  they  eyed  each  other.  Miss  Howe,  still 
flushing,  chose  her  words. 

"  Madala  never  lent.  That  wasn't  in  her.  She 
gave.  Time,  money,  love  —  she  gave.  You  took, 
it  was  understood,  rather  than  hurt  her  feelings  by 
refusing.  But  it  was  always  free  gift." 

"  Not  to  me."  Anita  held  her  head  high.  "  I 
shall  pay.  And  interest  too." 

"  Oh,  the  Life!  Are  you  really  going  to  attempt 
a  Life?  "  Miss  Howe  recovered  herself  with  a 
laugh,  while  Mr.  Flood  repeated  curiously  — 

"Yes,  but  then  what  were  you  after,  Anita? 
What  do  you  stand  to  gain?  " 

"  Reflected  glory,"  came  from  behind  him. 

She  turned  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

"Reflected?  Let  her  keep  it !  Reflected?  Am 
I  never  to  have  anything  of  my  own?  Oh,  wait !  " 

"  You  can't  get  much  of  yourself  into  a  life  of 
Madala  Grey  though.  You've  too  much  sense  of 
style  for  that,"  Mr.  Flood  insisted.  "  We  both 
hate  a  biographer  who  '  I  says,  says  I.'  " 

"  Oh,  it  shall  be  all  Madala  Grey.  I  promise 
you  that,"  she  said  with  her  thin  smile. 

"  Humph !  It's  a  notion."  Miss  Howe  was 
really  interested,  I  could  see  —  yet  with  a  flush  on 
her  cheek  still.  "  It's  your  sort  of  work  too, 
Anita!  You're  —  happier — in  critical  work." 

"  Oh,  don't  hedge.  Don't  be  delicate  with  me. 
I  can't  create,  that's  what  you  mean.  Do  you 
71 


LEGEND 

think  that's  news  to  me?  Is  there  a  critic  who  has 
failed  to  make  it  clear  to  me?  I  can  record  — 
but  I  can't  create.  Good!  I  can't  create.  I 
can't  do  what  she  did  —  what  you  do,  Jasper  — 

what  even  Beryl  here  does.    But "  she  paused 

an  instant,  "you  should  be  afraid  of  me  for  all 
that.  I  can  pry.  Little,  nasty,  mean  word,  isn't 
it?  It's  me!" 

The  Baxter  girl  laughed  uncertainly  and  then 
stopped  because  Anita's  eyes  were  on  her. 

"  I've  eyes.  I  " —  she  opened  and  shut  her  tiny 
hands  before  them  — "  I've  claws.  I  can  pry  you 
open,  any  of  you  —  if  I  choose.  I  haven't  chosen. 
You've  not  been  worth  while.  But  —  Madala  !  " 
and  here  she  released  the  uneasy  Baxter  girl  — 
"  Madala's  my  chance  —  my  chance  —  my  chance ! 
Madala  Grey  —  look  at  her  —  coming  into  her 
kingdom  at  twenty  —  that  babe !  And  me  !  Look 
at  me !  Do  you  know  what  my  life  has  been,  any 
of  you?  Oh,  you  come  to  my  house  to  meet  my 
lionets,  and  we're  very  good  friends,  and  you're 
afraid  of  my  reviews,  and  so  I  have  my  position, 
I  suppose.  But  what  do  you  know  about  me? 
When  I  was  fifteen  —  and  it's  thirty  years  ago  — 
I  said  to  myself,  *  Now  what  shall  I  do  with  my 
life?'  Mother — "  she  shot  her  a  glance:  she 
didn't  even  trouble  to  lower  her  voice,  "  she'd  have 
drudged  me  and  dressed  me  and  married  me,  I  sup- 
pose, to  three  hundred  a  year  and  the  city  —  oh, 
with  the  best  of  motives.  I  fought.  I  fought. 
72 


LEGEND 

That's  why  I'm  an  ungrateful  daughter.  I'm  sup- 
posed to  be,  I  think.  My  people  were  so  sorry  for 
my  mother.  My  people  thought  me  a  fool.  I  saw 
through  them.  Yes,  and  I  saw  through  myself. 
That's  the  kind  of  a  fool  I  was.  Didn't  I  reckon 
it  out?  I  hadn't  a  charm.  I  hadn't  a  talent.  I 
had  my  will.  That's  all  I  had.  I  taught  myself. 
Work?  You  don't  know  what  work  means,  you 
ten  and  five-talented.  There's  not  a  book  worth 
reading  that  I  haven't  read.  There's  not  the  style 
of  a  master  that  I  haven't  studied,  that  I  couldn't 
reproduce  at  a  pinch.  There's  not  a  man  or  a 
woman  in  London  today,  worth  knowing  —  from 
my  point  of  view  —  that  I  haven't  contrived  to 
know.  The  people  who've  arrived  —  how  I've 
studied  them,  the  ways  of  them,  the  methods  of 
them.  And  what's  the  end  of  it  all?  That"— 
she  jerked  her  head  to  the  row  of  her  own  books 
on  the  shelf  behind  her  — "  and  my  column  in  the 
Matins,  and  some  comforting  hundreds  a  year, 
and  —  my  knowledge  of  myself.  Oh,  I've  turned 
out  good  work.  I  know  that.  I  have  judgment. 
That's  why  I  judge  myself.  I've  always  been  rigid 
with  myself.  And  so  I  know  when  I  look  at  my 
books  —  though  I  can  say  that  they  are  sounder, 
better  work,  in  better  English,  that  they  have  more 
knowledge  behind  them,  than  the  books  of  a  dozen 
of  you  people  who  arrive  —  yet  I  know  that  they 
have  failed.  People  don't  read  me.  People  don't 
want  me.  Why?  I  have  my  name.  I've  the 
73 


LEGEND 

name  of  a  well-known  critic,  but  —  I'm  only  a 
name.  I'm  not  alive.  The  public  doesn't  touch 
hands  with  me.  Now  why?  Oh,  how  I've  tor- 
mented myself.  Nearly  thirty  years  I've  given,  of 
unremitting  labour,  to  my  art,  to  my  career. 
There's  not  a  thought  or  a  wish  that  I  haven't 
sacrificed  to  it.  And  then  that  child  of  twenty 
comes  along,  without  knowledge,  without  training, 
without  experience,  and  gets  at  one  leap,  mark  you 
all,  at  one  leap,  more  than  I've  achieved  in  thirty 
years.  Some  people,  I  suppose,  would  submit. 
Well,  I  won't.  I  wouldn't.  Does  my  will  go  for 
nothing?  I  will  have  my  share.  *  Reflected  glory,' 
yes,  I've  stooped  to  that.  I've  exploited  her,  if 
you  like  to  call  it  that.  When  I  think  of  the  day 
I  discovered  her  —  She  paused  an  instant, 

dragging  her  hand  wearily  over  her  eyes  — "  I  was 
at  my  zero  that  day.  The  Famous  Women  had 
been  out  a  week.  The  reviews  —  oh,  the  reviews ! 
Respectful,  courteous,  lukewarm.  If  they'd  at- 
tacked me,  if  they'd  slated,  I'd  have  rejoiced. 
But  they  respect  me  and  they're  bored.  They 
know  it's  sound  work  and  they're  bored.  I  bore 
people.  I  bore  you  —  all  of  you.  Do  you  think 
I'm  blind?  That  night  I  read  the  manuscript  of 
Eden  Walls.  (Wasn't  it  kind  of  me  —  it  wasn't 
even  typed!)  And  then  I  saw  my  chance.  I  saw 
how  far  she'd  got  at  twenty,  and  I  thought  — '  I'll 
take  my  chance.  I'll  take  this  genius.  I'll  make 
74 


LEGEND 

her  fond  of  me.  I'll  help  her.  I'll  worm  myself 
into  her.  I'll  abase  myself.  I'll  toady.  I'll  do 
anything.  But  I  will  find  out  how  she  does  it.  I 
will  find  out  the  secret.  I'll  find  it  and  I'll  make 
it  my  own.  I'll  serve  for  her  as  Jacob  served  for 
Rachel ;  but  she  shall  serve  me  in  the  end.'  I  have 
watched.  I  have  studied.  I  have  puzzled.  I  be- 
lieve I've  grasped  it  at  last.  I  know  myself  and 
I  know  her.  If  genius  is  life  —  the  power  to  give 
life  —  is  it  that  ?  —  then  I'm  barren.  I  can't 
make  life  as  Madala  can.  But  • —  listen  to  me ! 
Listen  to  me,  all  of  you!  I  can  take  a  living 
thing  —  I  can  cut  it  open  alive.  That's  what  I 
shall  do  with  this  life-maker  —  this  easy  genius. 
I've  taken  her  to  pieces,  flesh  and  blood,  bone  and 
ligament  and  muscle,  every  secret  of  her  mind 
and  her  heart  and  her  soul.  The  life,  the  real  life 
of  Madala  Grey,  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  genius, 
that's  what  I'm  going  to  make  plain.  She's  been 
a  puzzle  to  you  all,  with  her  gifts  and  her  ways 
and  her  crazy  marriage  —  she's  not  a  mystery  to 
me.  I  tell  you  I've  got  her,  naked,  pinned  down, 
and  now  I  shall  make  her  again.  Isn't  it  fair? 
She  ought  to  thank  me.  '  Dead,'  he  says.  Who's 
to  blame?  She  chose  to  kill  herself.  What  right 
had  she  to  take  risks  ?  I  —  I've  refrained.  She 
couldn't.  She  threw  away  her  lamp.  But  I  —  I 
take  it.  I  light  it  again.  Finding's  keeping. 
It's  mine." 

75 


LEGEND 

Her  voice  ripped  on  the  high  note  like  a  rag  on 
a  nail,  and  she  checked,  panting.  Her  hand  went 
up  to  her  throat  as  the  fumy  air  rasped  it. 

"  Mine !  "  she  cried  again,  coughing.  There  was 
wild-fire  in  her  eyes  as  she  challenged  them. 

The  little  space  between  her  solitariness  and 
their  grouped  attention  was  filled  with  fog  and 
silence  and  lamp-light,  woven  as  it  were  into  a 
fifth  element.  It  was  like  a  pool  to  be  crossed. 
And  across  it,  in  answer,  a  laugh  rippled  out. 

I  don't  know  who  it  was  that  laughed.  I  did 
not  recognize  the  voice.  Sometimes,  looking  back, 
I  think  it  was  the  laugh  of  their  collective  soul. 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Anita,  and  stopped  as  if  she  had 
been  awakened  suddenly  by  a  blow  —  as  if  the 
little  wondering,  wincing  cry  had  been  struck  out  of 
her  by  a  blow  on  the  face.  She  stood  thus  a  mo- 
ment, uncertain.  Then  she,  too,  laughed,  nerv- 
ously, apologetically. 

"  One  talks,"  she  said,  "  among  friends." 

Miss  Howe  made  a  wry  face. 

*'  Lord,  we're  a  queer  set  of  friends !  How  we 
love  one  another !  " 

"  You've  all  of  you  been  awfully  good  to  me," 
said  the  Baxter  girl.  But  her  gratitude  was  too 
general  to  be  acceptable.  Even  I  could  have  told 
her  that. 

"  Oh,  we  do  our  beat  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Flood. 

She  looked  at  him  from  under  her  lashes. 

"  Yes,  and  she's  thinking  this  minute  what  a 
76 


LEGEND 

nice  little  scene  this  would  make  for  her  new  book 
—  touched  up,  of  course,"  said  the  woman  be- 
hind him. 

"  Art  —  selection  —  Jimmy  Whistler  " 

Mr.  Flood  was  one  indistinct  murmur. 

"  With  herself  her  own  heroine  again,  eh? " 
Miss  Howe  baited  her. 

"  I  didn't.     I  wasn't." 

"  Better  folk  than  you  do  it,  child !  Anita  says 
so.  Don't  they,  Anita?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Anita  heavily,  "  I  wish  Madala  Grey 
were  here.  I  wish  she  hadn't  died.  If  she  were 
here  she  wouldn't  —  you'd  never  —  she  wouldn't 
let  you  laugh  at  me." 

Miss  Howe  looked  at  her  intently.  There  was 
a  quick  little  run  of  expression  across  her  large 
handsome  face,  like  a  hand  playing  a  scale.  It 
showed,  that  easily  moved,  easily  read  face,  sur- 
prise, interest,  concern,  and,  in  the  end,  the  senti- 
mental impulse  of  your  kind  fur-clad  woman  to  the 
beggar  on  the  curb.  '  Why !  I  believe  she's  cold ! 
I  don't  like  it !  Give  her  tuppence,  quick ! '  She 
was  out  of  her  chair,  overwhelming  Anita,  in  one 
impetuous  heave  of  drapery. 

"  You're  right,  Nita !  We're  pigs !  Some- 
thing's wrong  with  us.  'Pologize.  You  know  we 
don't  mean  it." 

Anita  endured  her  right-and-left  kisses. 

"  You  do  mean  it,"  was  all  she  said. 

She  was  shrunk  to  such  a  small  grey  creature 
77 


LEGEND 

again.  I  thought  to  myself — 'Fire?  It's  not 
even  diamond-sparkle.  She's  as  dull  as  stone.' 

Miss  Howe  was  eagerly  remorseful. 

"  We  don't.  I  don't  know  what's  got  into  us 
tonight.  It's  the  fog.  There's  something  evil 
about  a  fog.  Distorting.  It  yellows  over  one's 
soul." 

"It  isn't  only  tonight,"  said  the  Baxter  girl, 
with  her  sidelong,  '  can-I-risk-it?  '  look  at  them. 
"  The  fog's  been  coming  on  for  months." 

"And  you  mean ?"  The  blonde  lady 

never  snubbed  the  Baxter  girl.  It  struck  me  sud- 
denly, as  their  eyes  met,  that  there  was  the  be- 
ginning of  a  likeness  between  them.  The  Baxter 

girl  at  fifty  —  with  dyed  hair ?  But  it  was 

only  an  idea  of  mine.  I'm  always  seeing  imagin- 
ary likenesses.  I  remember  that  those  Academy 
pictures  of  Kent  Rehan's  always  set  me  to  work 
wondering  — '  That  woman  with  the  face  turned 
away  —  I've  seen  her  somewhere  —  of  whom  does 
she  remind  me?  —  where  have  I  seen  her?'  And 
yet,  of  course,  in  those  days  I  knew  nothing  of 
Madala  Grey. 

But  the  Baxter  girl  was  answering  — 

"  It  —  it's  cheek,  I  know,  but  it's  true.  When 
I  first  came  —  "  then,  with  a  swift  propitiatory 
glance  at  Anita  — "  when  you  first  let  me  come 
—  the  Nights  weren't  like  this.  You  weren't  like 
this,  any  of  you  — 

"Upon  —  my-  — word!"  said  Miss  Howe  with 
78 


LEGEND 

her  benevolent  chuckle.  "  Nita !  Listen  to  the 
infant!" 

"  Like  what  ?  "     Mr.  Flood  moved  uneasily. 

The  Baxter  girl  turned  to  him  enthusiastically. 

"Oh,  I  used  to  think  you  such  wonderful  peo- 
ple- 

"  Did  you  now?  "  Miss  Howe  teased  her. 

"Let  be!  let  be!"  said  Mr.  Flood  impatiently. 
"Well,  dear  lady?" 

"  Oh,  I  did!  I'd  read  all  your  stuff.  I  believe 
I  could  write  out  The  Orchid  House  from  memory 
still." 

His  eyes  lit  up  as  he  challenged  her  — 

" « Sour ! '  said  the  fox  at  her  feet, 
'  How   can   she   ripen   windy-high? 
Sour!'  said  the  fox  with  his  nose  to  the  sky—" 

He  was  as  pleased  as  a  child  with  a  toy  when  she 
capped  it  — 

"  Then  a  grape  dropped  off.    It  was  rotten  sweet. 

There !  "  she  flushed  at  him  triumphantly.     And 

then — "Now  did  you  mean ?     Who  was  in 

your  mind?  Were  they  anyone  we  know?  I've 
always  wanted  to  ask  you." 

But  before  he  could  answer  her  the  blonde  lady 
leaned  forward  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  He 
turned  to  her  with  a  glance  of  interest  and  amuse- 
ment, but  with  his  lips  still  moving  and  his  mind 
still  running  on  an  answer  to  the  Baxter  girl. 
79 


LEGEND 

The  blonde  lady  whispered  again,  and  then  he 
turned  right  round  to  answer  her,  shelving  his 
arms  on  her  knees.  I  couldn't  hear  what  they  said, 
but  it  was  just  as  if  she  had  beckoned  him  into 
another  room.  He  was  withdrawn  from  the  con- 
versation and  from  the  Baxter  girl  for  as  long  as 
that  blonde  lady  chose. 

Miss  Howe  looked  at  them  with  her  broad 
smile. 

"Tell  us,  Beryl!  We're  listening,  anyhow!" 
she  said  invitingly. 

But  the  Baxter  girl's  chin  went  up.  The  touch 
of  annoyance  in  her  voice  made  it  twang,  made 
her  commonness  suddenly  noticeable.  She  was 
bearable  when  she  was  in  awe  of  them,  but  now 
she  was  asserting  herself,  and  that  meant  that 
she  was  inclined  to  be  noisy. 

"  Oh,  my  opinion  doesn't  count,  of  course ! 
But " —  she  swung  like  a  pendulum  between  her 
two  manners — "oh,  I  did  enjoy  myself  at  first. 
It  was  the  way  you  all  talked.  You  knew  every- 
one. You'd  read  everything.  You  frothed  ad- 
ventures. Like  champagne  it  was,  meeting  all 
the  people.  I  used  to  write  my  head  off,  the  week 
after.  And  you  were  all  kind  to  me  from  the 
first.  I  suppose  it  was  Madala.  She  never  let 
one  feel  out  of  it.  But  I  thought  it  was  all  of 
you.  I  had  the  feeling — 'the  gods  aren't  jeal- 
ous gods.'  But  now  it's  " —  she  looked  at  them 
pertly  — "  it's  fog  on  Olympus." 
80 


LEGEND 

"  You  needn't  —  honour  us,  you  know,  Beryl," 
said  Anita  sharply. 

She  answered  with  her  furtive  look. 

"  I  know.  And  I  don't  think  —  I  don't  want 
to  come  as  much  as  I  did." 

"  In  that  case "     Anita  ruffled  up. 

"  Fog !  Fog !  "  cried  Miss  Howe  clapping  her 
hands.  And  then  — "  All  the  same,  Nita,  people 
are  dropping  off.  The  Whitneys  haven't  been 
for  weeks.  When  did  Roy  Huth  come  last?  And 
the  Golding  crowd?  I  marvel  that  he  turns  up 
still."  She  nodded  towards  Kent  Rehan.  "  Oh, 
you  know,  we're  like  a  row  of  beads  when  the 
string's  been  pulled  out.  We  lie  in  a  line  for 
a  time,  but  a  touch  will  send  us  rolling  in  all 
directions." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Baxter  girl  vehemently,  "  the 
heart's  out  of  it  somehow.  I'm  not  ungrateful. 
It's  just  because  I  used  to  love  coming  so." 

Miss  Howe  looked  down  at  Anita,  not  unkindly. 

"  Give  it  up,  Nita !  The  Nights  have  served 
their  turn.  It  sounds  ungracious,  but  things  have 
to  end  sometime  or  other.  Hasn't  the  time  come? 
Hasn't  it  come  tonight?  " 

"  But  you've  been  coming  all  this  year  just  the 
same,"  said  Anita  stubbornly. 

Miss  Howe  shrugged  her  shoulders.  It  was  the 
Baxter  girl  who  answered  — 

"  Ah,  but  there  was  always  just  a  chance  of 
seeing  Madala." 

81 


LEGEND 

At  that  Anita,  who  had  been  sitting  as  steely 
stiff  as  a  needle  in  a  pin-cushion,  got  up,  shaking 
off  Miss  Howe's  persuasive,  detaining  hand  and  the 
overflow  of  her  skirts.  The  cushions  tumbled 
after  her  on  to  the  floor. 

"  As  to  that,"  she  said,  "  and  don't  imagine  that 
I  haven't  known  what  you  came  for,  all  of 
you 

"Eh?" 

Her  voice  was  sharp  enough  to  have  recalled 
anyone  and  it  recalled  Mr.  Flood.  He  returned 
to  the  conversation  with  the  air  of  dragging  the 
blonde  lady  after  him.  She  had  the  manner  of 
one  hanging  back  and  protesting,  and  laughing  still 
over  some  secret  understanding.  "  Eh? "  said 
he.  "  What's  that  about  Madala?  " 

Anita  looked  from  one  to  another. 

"  I'm  telling  you,"  she  said.  "  I've  told  you 
already,  I  can  give  you  Madala  Grey.  Come 
here  and  I'll  give  you  Madala  Grey  still.  That's 
what  you  want,  isn't  it,  to  be  amused?  She 
amused  you." 

"  She  did,  bless  her!  "  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  It  was  her  brains,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  A  beautiful  creature,"  said  Mr.  Flood  slowly. 

"  Not  she !  "  The  lady  behind  him  was  smiling. 
"  She  made  you  think  so.  She  made  men  think 
so.  But  how?  That  intrigued  me.  Oh,  she  was 
prettyish:  but  that  was  all.  I  used  to  watch 

her: " 

82 


LEGEND 

"Envy?"  said  he. 

"  No,  not  envy,"  said  that  woman  slowly.  "  She 
was  too  —  innocent  —  how  could  one  envy  ?  She 
didn't  know  her  own  strength.  She  said  — 
*  Don't  hurt  me,5  with  a  sword  at  her  side." 

"  Excalibur."  It  came  from  Mr.  Flood. 
"  Magic." 

"No,  Madala  — just  Madala."  Miss  Howe 
sighed.  "  It's  no  good,  Anita,  you  can't  give 
us  back  Madala." 

But  my  cousin,  looking  at  them,  laughed  in 
her  turn. 

"  Madala  ?  You  fools !  You've  never  had  her. 
But  you  shall!  Oh,  wait!  My  books  are  dull, 
aren't  they?  Yet  you'll  be  here,  you  know,  every 
month,  thick  as  bees,  to  listen  to  me.  A  chapter 
a  month,  that's  all  I'll  give  to  you.  /  don't  write 
three  novels  a  year.  But  you'll  come,  you'll  come. 
Proof?  There's  plenty  of  proof.  See  here." 

She  went  swiftly  across  to  the  outer  room. 
There  was  a  large  carved  desk  standing  on  the 
little  table  by  the  window.  She  picked  it  up.  It 
was  too  big  for  her.  It  filled  her  arms  so  that 
she  staggered  under  the  weight. 

"Oh,  Kent!"  she  called. 

He  came  back  to  the  foggy  room  with  a  visible 
wrench. 

"  Here,  that's  too  heavy  for  you.  Let  me." 
He  took  it  from  her. 

"The  table  — here.  Thank  you,  oh,  thank 
88 


LEGEND 

you,  Kent."  She  veiled  her  voice  as  she  spoke 
to  him.  "  It's  heavy  —  it's  so  full  —  books  — 
papers  — 

He  put  it  down  for  her  and  nodded,  and  was 
straying  away  again  when  she  stopped  him. 

"Kent!  Don't  sit  by  yourself.  We" — her 
voice  was  for  him  alone  — "  we're  talking  about 
—  her.  I  was  going  to  show  them  —  Kent,  stay 
here  with  us." 

He  waited  while  she  talked  to  him.  And  she 
talked  very  sweetly  and  kindly.  She  was  the  quiet, 
chiff ony  little  creature  again  with  the  pretty,  pure 
voice.  /  couldn't  make  her  out.  She  looked  up 
at  him  and  said  something  too  low  for  me  to 
catch,  and  then  — 

"  There's  your  chair.  Isn't  that  always  your 
chair?  "  And  so  left  him  and  turned  to  the  table 
and  the  box  and  the  others. 

But  he  did  not  take  the  saddle-bag  near  Anita's 
own  seat.  He  looked  irresolutely  from  one  to 
another  of  the  group  that  watched  Anita  fumbling 
with  her  keys.  He  looked,  and  his  face  softened, 
at  Great-aunt,  muttering  over  her  needles.  He 
looked  at  the  empty  chair  beside  me.  He  looked 
at  me  and  found  me  watching  him.  Then,  as  I 
smiled  at  him  just  a  little,  he  came  to  me  and  sat 
down.  But  he  said  nothing  to  me,  and  so  I  was 
quiet  too. 

But  Anita  was  busy,  hands  and  eyes  and  tongue 
all  busy. 

84 


LEGEND 

"  When  she  married,  you  know,  in  that  hole-and- 
corner  fashion  —  Then,  as  if  in  answer, 
though  nobody  had  spoken  — "  Well,  what  else  was 
it,  when  nobody  knew  ?  —  when  even  I  didn't 
know " 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  chair  beside  me, 
and  turning,  I  caught  the  ending  of  a  glance  to- 
wards my  cousin.  A  new  look,  I  found  it,  on  that 
passive  face,  a  roused  and  wondering  and  scorn- 
ful look  that  transformed  it.  But,  even  as  I 
caught  it,  it  faded  again  to  that  other  look  of 
bleak  indifference,  a  look  to  know  and  dread  on  any 
creature's  face,  a  look  that  must  not  stay  on  any 
fellow-creature's  face.  I  knew  that  well  enough. 
So  I  said  the  first  words  that  came,  in  my  lowest 
voice,  lest  they  should  hear. 

But  they  were  talking.     They  did  not  hear. 

"I'm  sure  that  Great-aunt  knew."  Indeed  I 
thought  so.  I  think  that  Great-aunt  would  al- 
ways be  kind  and  guessing  with  a  girl.  Then  I 
wondered  at  myself  for  daring  it  and  thought  nerv- 
ously —  *  He'll  snub  me.  He'll  be  right  to  snub 
me ' 

But  he  looked  across  at  Great-aunt  kindly  and 
said,  in  just  such  a  withdrawn  voice  as  mine  — 

"  Yes,  of  course,  if  ever  there  was  a  time 

when "  Then  he  half  smiled.  "  Poor  old 

lady !     But    she's    changed.     She   used   to   be    so 

brisk  and  managing,  more  like  fifty  than  seventy. 

But  this  year's  aged  her.     She  wanted,  you  know, 

85 


LEGEND 

to  give  some  pearls  —  her  own  pearls.  But  pearls 
spell  sorrow.  And  Anita  would  have  objected. 
She  told  me  all  about  it." 

"  She  was  speaking  of  them  tonight."  We  both 
turned  again  and  looked  at  her.  She  had  dropped 
her  knitting,  or  it  had  slipped  from  her  knee,  and 
she  sat  in  her  chair  staring  down  at  it  with  a  ter- 
rible, comical  air  of  helplessness.  Then  she  caught 
his  eye  and  forgot  the  knitting  and  nodded  at 
him. 

"  I  think  — "  I  said,  "  I  don't  think  she  under- 
stands. She  asked  me  —  she  forgets  I'm  a 

stranger.  She  asked  me '  I  broke  off.  I 

couldn't  say  to  him  — '  She  asked  me  about  Miss 
Grey  and  she  doesn't  realize  that  she's  dead.' 
One's  afraid  of  the  brutality  of  words.  But  he 
understood.  There  was  a  simplicity  about  him 
that  re-assured  one.  And  he  never  said  — '  It's 
Anita's  business.  It's  not  your  business,'  as  any- 
one else  might  have  done.  He  just  said,  once 
again  — 

"  Poor  old  lady ! "  and  hesitated  a  minute. 
Then  he  got  up  and  went  across  to  her  and  picked 
up  her  wools.  I  don't  think  the  others  noticed 
him  go.  Anita  didn't.  She  was  talking  too  fast. 

" —  left  a  trunk-full  of  papers  and  so  on.  I'd 
often  stored  boxes  for  her.  Somehow  it  never  got 
sent  down.  I  came  across  it  only  yesterday.  I 
thought  to  myself  that  there  was  no  harm  in  put- 
ting things  straight.  You  know  I'm  literary 
86 


LEGEND 

executor?  Oh  yes.  She  said  to  me  soon  after 
her  marriage,  half  in  joke,  that  she  supposed  she 
had  got  to  make  a  will  —  and  what  about  her 
MSS.?  '  I  can't  have  him  worried.'  I  offered  at 
once.  You  see  I  know  so  exactly  her  attitude  in 
literature.  There's  a  good  deal  of  unpublished 
stuff  —  early  stuff.  But  all  in  hopeless  confusion. 
Tumbled  up  with  bills  and  programmes  and  one  or 
two  drafts  of  letters  —  or  so  I  imagine.  She  had 
that  annoying  habit  —  that  ugly  modern  habit  — 
of  beginning  without  any  invocation,  and  never  a 
date.  But  there's  one  letter  —  there's  the  draft  of 
a  letter  that's  important  from  my  point  of  view." 
She  broke  off  with  a  half  laugh.  "It  sounds  a 
ridiculous  statement  to  make  about  Madala  Grey 
of  all  people,  but  do  you  know  that  she  couldn't 
express  herself  at  all  easily  on  paper?  " 

Miss  Howe  nodded. 

"  Do  I  know  ?  I've  known  her  re-write  a  letter 
half  a  dozen  times  before  she  got  it  to  her  liking  — 
no,  not  business  letters,  letters  to  her  intimates. 
A  most  comical  trick.  Scribble,  scribble,  scribble 
—  slash !  and  then  crunch  goes  the  sheet  into  a  ball, 
into  the  grate,  or  near  it,  till  it  looked  as  if  she 
were  playing  snow-balls,  and  then  Madala  begins 
again  —  and  again  —  and  again.  Yet  she  talked 
well.  She  talked  easily." 

"  Isn't  that  in  keeping?  "  Mr.  Flood  struck  in. 
"  She  didn't  express  so  much  herself  in  her  speech 
as  the  mood  of  the  moment." 
87 


LEGEND 

"  As  the  mood  of  the  companion  of  the  moment 
more  likely,"  the  blonde  lady  corrected. 

He  nodded  agreement. 

"But   for  herself  —  go  to  her  books." 

"  Or  her  letters  —  her  careful,  conscientious  let- 
ters. But  she  was  careless  about  her  drafts,"  said 
Anita  significantly. 

Mr.  Flood  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"What's  up  that  sleeve  of  yours,  Anita?  " 

She  was  quick. 

"  You  shall  read  it,  in  its  place.  But  the 
trouble  is "  She  hesitated.  She  gave  the  lit- 
tle nervous  cough  that  always  ushered  in  her  pub- 
lic lectures.  "  We've  all  written  books,"  she  said, 
"  all  except  you,  Blanche 

The  blonde  lady  blinked  her  sleepy  eyes. 

"  You're  all  so  strenuous,"  she  purred.  "  I 
love  to  watch  you  being  strenuous.  So  sooth- 
ing." 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  say,  it's  easy  enough  to 
end  a  book,  but  have  you  ever  got  to  the  begin- 
ning? I  never  have.  One  steps  backward,  and 
backward  again  — 

"I  know,"  cried  the  Baxter  girl.  "Till  you 
get  tired  of  it  at  last  and  begin  writing  from  where 
you  are,  but  you  never  really  get  your  foot  on 
the  starting-point,  on  the  spring-board,  as  you 
might  say." 

"  That's  it.     Yes,  Jasper,  I've  got  material  up 


LEGEND 

my  sleeve,  but  frankly,  I  don't  know  how  to  place 
it.  I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  The  facts  of 
her  life,  her  conversation,  her  literary  work,  her 
letters  —  I  go  on  adding  to  my  material  till  I  am 
overwhelmed  with  all  that  I  have  got  to  say  about 
her.  But  I  don't  want  to  begin  with  facts.  Facts 
are  well  enough,  but  think  how  one  can  twist  them ! 
I  want  the  woman  behind  the  facts.  I  want  the 
answer  to  the  question  that  is  the  cause  of  a 
biography  such  as  mine  is  to  be  —  the  question  — 
*  What  was  Madala  Grey?  '  Not  who,  mark  you, 
but  further  back,  deeper  into  herself  — '  What  was 
Madala  Grey?'" 

"  Why,  a  genius,"  said  the  Baxter  girl  glibly. 

Anita  neither  assented  nor  dissented. 

"  Ah  — "  she  said,  frowning,  "  but  that's  not 
the  beginning  either.  At  once  we  take  our  step 
backward  again  — *  What  is  genius  ?  '  " 

"  Isn't  talent  good  enough?  "  said  Mr.  Flood 
acidly. 

"But  does  one  mean  talent?"  She  was  still 
frowning.  "  Everyone's  got  talent.  I'm  sick  of 
talent.  But  she  —  she  mayn't  be  a  great  one  — 
how  she'd  have  laughed  at  being  called  a  great 
one !  —  but  she  makes  her  dolls  live.  And  isn't 
that  the  blood-link  between  the  greatest  gods  and 
the  littlest  gods?  Life-givers?  Life-makers? 
Oh,  I  only  speak  for  myself;  but  she  made  her 
book-world  real  to  me,  therefore  for  me  she  had 


LEGEND 

genius.  Whether  or  not  I  convince  you  is  the  test 
of  whether  my  life-work,  my  Life  of  her  —  fails 
or  succeeds." 

"  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  trust  it  to  Madala  ?  " 
said  Miss  Howe  softly. 

"Trust  what?" 

"  To  convince  us." 

She  answered,  suspicious  rather  than  compre- 
hending, for  indeed  Miss  Howe's  tone  was  very 
smooth  — 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     7'm  writing  her  life." 

Miss  Howe  was  inscrutable. 

"  Of  course  you  are.  Fire  ahead.  Genius, 
wasn't  it?  " 

Anita  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What's  in  a  name?  It's  the  quality  itself 
that  fascinates  me.  I  want  to  account  for  it.  I 
want  to  trace  it  to  its  source.  Worth  doing,  isn't 
it?  But  do  you  realize  the  difficulties?  Some- 
times I  feel  hopeless.  I've  known  her  five  years, 
and  her  books  I  know  by  heart,  and  I'm  only  just 
beginning  to  decide  whether  to  call  her  a  romantic 
or  a  realist." 

"A  realist.  Look  at  Eden  Walls,"  said  the 
Baxter  girl. 

"A  romantic.  Look  at  The  Resting-place," 
said  Miss  Howe. 

Mr.  Flood  over-rode  them. 

"  Dear  ladies,  you  confuse  the  terms.  It  amazes 
90 


LEGEND 

me  how  people  always  confuse  the  terms.  Your 
so-called  realist,  your  writer  who  depicts  what  we 
call  reality,  the  outward  life,  that  is,  of  flesh  and 
dirt  and  misery  —  don't  you  see  that  he  is  in 
truth  a  romantic  —  a  man  (or  woman)  who  lives 
in  a  fair  world  of  his  own,  a  paradise  of  the  im- 
agination? Out  of  that  secure  world  of  his  he 
peers  curiously  at  ours,  and  writes  of  it  as  we 
dare  not  write,  writes  down  every  sordid,  garish, 
tragic-comic  detail.  Your  so-called  realist  can 
afford  the  humour  of  Rabelais,  the  horror  of 
Dostoievsky,  the  cheerful  flesh  and  blood  of  Field- 
ing. Why  shouldn't  he  be  truthful?  It's  not  his 
world.  Don't  you  see?  But  your  so-called 
romantic,  he  lives  in  this  real  world.  He  knows 
it  so  well  that  he  has  to  shut  his  eyes  or  he  would 
die  of  its  reality.  So  he  escapes  into  the  world 
of  romance,  the  world  of  beauty  within  his  own 
mind  —  nowhere  but  in  his  own  mind.  Who  is 
our  dreamer  of  dreams?  Shelley,  the  realist  1 
Blake  jogged  elbows  with  poverty  and  squalor  all 
his  life,  and  he  was  the  prophet  and  the  king  of 
all  spirits.  Don't  you  see?  And  Goethe  —  the 
biographers  will  tell  you  that  Goethe  began  as  a 
realist  and  ended  as  a  romantic.  I  say  it  was  the 
other  way  round.  What  did  he  know  of  reality  in 
the  twenties?  Its  discovery  was  the  romantic 
adventure  of  his  young  genius.  But  when  he  was 
old  and  worldly  and  wise  —  then  he  wrote  his 
91 


LEGEND 

romances,  to  escape  from  his  own  knowledge.  Oh, 
I  tell  you,  you  should  turn  the  words  round.  Now 
take  Shakespeare  — 

"  It's  not  fair  to  take  Shakespeare,"  said  Miss 
Howe.  "  It's  the  Elephant  and  the  Crawfishes 
over  again.  Let's  keep  to  the  crawfishes !  Let's 
keep  to  our  own  generation !  " 

"  Well,  if  I  were  Anita  I  should  begin  by  show- 
ing Madala  as  a  romantic  —  as  the  young 
romantic  producing  the  most  startlingly  realistic 
book  we've  had  for  a  decade.  Indeed  to  me,  you 
know,  her  development  is  marked  by  her  books 
in  the  sharpest  way.  It's  the  young,  the  curious, 
the  observant  Madala  in  Eden  Walls.  The  whole 
book  is  a  shout  of  discovery,  of  young,  horrified 
discovery,  of  the  ugliness  of  life.  It's  as  if  she 
said  — '  Listen  !  Listen  !  These  things  actually 
happen  to  some  people.  Isn't  it  awful? '  She 
dwells  on  it.  She  insists  on  every  detail.  She 
can't  get  away  from  it.  And  yet  she  can  hardly 
believe  it,  that  young  Madala.  But  in  Ploughed 
Fields  already  the  tone's  changing.  It's  a  pleas- 
anter  book,  a  more  sophisticated  book.  It  inter- 
ests profoundly,  but  it's  careful  not  to  upset  one 
—  an  advance,  of  course.  Yet  I,  you  know,  hear 
our  Madala's  voice  in  it  still,  an  uneasy  voice  — 
'  Hush !  Hush !  These  things  happen  to  most 
people.  Pretend  not  to  notice.'  And  in  the  last 
book,  in  the  pretty,  impossible  romance,  there  you 
have  your  realist  full-fledged  — *  Shut  your  eyes ! 


LEGEND 

Come  away  quickly !  These  things  are  happening 
to  me!  ' '  He  leant  back  again,  folding  his  arms 
and  dropping  liis  chin.  And  then,  because  Miss 
Howe  was  looking  at  him  as  if  she  were  amused  — 
"I  tell  you  I  know.  I  recognize  the  symptoms. 
I'm  a  realist  myself.  That's  why  I  write  romantic 
poetry.  Have  to.  It's  that  or  drugs.  How  else 
shall  one  get  through  life?  " 

"  Jasper !  "  said  the  blonde  lady.  But  for  once 
he  didn't  turn  to  her.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Don't  worry.     Who'll  believe  me?  " 

The  Baxter  girl  was  breathless. 

"  Oh,  but  I  do.  It's  a  new  Madala,  of  course. 
But  I  believe  it  explains  her." 

"  But  the  facts  of  her  life  don't  agree,"  began 
Miss  Howe. 

"  Ah,  Anita's  got  to  make  'em,"  said  Mr.  Flood 
languidly.  "  Isn't  that  the  art  of  biography  ?  " 

But  Anita  was  deadly  serious. 

"  You  don't  begin  far  enough  back.  My  spring- 
board is  not  —  what  is  Madala?  but  —  what  is 
genius?  How  does  it  happen?  Is  it  immaculate 
birth?  or  is  it  begotten  of  accident  upon  environ- 
ment? That  is  to  say  —  is  it  inspiration  or  is  it 
experience?  I  speak  of  the  divine  fire,  you  under- 
stand, not  of  the  capacity  for  resolving  it  into 
words  or  paint  or  stone.  That's  craft,  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing.  You  say  that  Madala  was  not  a 
genius  in  the  big  sense  —  yes,  I'll  admit  that  even, 
for  the  argument's  sake  —  but  even  you  will  con- 
93 


LEGEND 

cede  her  the  beginnings  of  it.  So  my  difficulty  is 
just  the  same.  I've  never  believed  in  instinctive 
genius.  Yet  how  can  she,  at  twenty,  have  had  the 
experience  (that  she  had  the  craft  is  amazing 
enough)  to  cope  with  Eden  Walls?  Romantic 
curiosity  isn't  enough  explanation,  Jasper !  Look 
at  her  certainty  of  touch.  Look  at  her  detail. 
Look  how  she  gets  inside  that  woman's  mind. 
That's  the  fascination  of  it.  It's  such  a  docu- 
ment. Now  how  does  she  know  it?  That's  what 
intrigues  me.  Madala  and  a  street  woman ! 
Where's  the  connection?  How  does  she  get  in- 
side her?  Because  she  does  get  inside  her." 

"  Oh,  it's   real  enough,"  said   the  blonde  lady. 

"  It  must  be.  You  should  have  seen  the  letters 
she  received !  Amazing,  some  of  them." 

"  Anita,  they  amazed  her.  I  remember  her  get- 
ting one  while  she  was  staying  with  us.  She 
looked  thoroughly  frightened.  She  said  — '  But, 
Lila,  I  didn't  realize  —  it  was  just  a  story.  But 
this  poor  thing,  she  says  it's  true!  She  says  it's 
happened  to  her!  What  are  we  to  do?'  You 
know,  she  was  nearly  crying.  It  was  some  hys- 
terical woman  who  had  read  the  book.  But 
Madala  always  believed  in  people.  I  know  she 
wrote  to  her.  I  believe  she  helped  her.  But  she 
never  told  you  much  about  her  doings." 

"  Oh,  her  sentimental  side  doesn't  interest  me. 
What  I  ask  myself  is  —  how  does  she  know,  as  she 
obviously  does  know,  all  that  her  wretched  drab 
94 


LEGEND 

of   a   heroine   thought    and   felt   and   suffered? " 
"  Instinct !     Imagination !  "     said    the    Baxter 
girl.     "  It  must  be  the  explanation." 

"  It  isn't.  It  isn't.  Oh,  I've  puzzled  it  out. 
I'm  convinced  that  from  the  beginning  it's  ex- 
perience. Don't  flare,  Lila,  I  don't  mean  literal 
experience.  Not  in  Eden  Walls,  anyhow.  Later, 
of  course  —  but  we're  discussing  Eden  Walls. 
Imagination,  do  you  say,  Beryl?  But  the  imag- 
ination must  have  a  fact  for  its  root.  I'll  grant 
you  that  imagination  is  so  essentially  a  quality  of 
youth  that  the  merest  rootlet  of  a  reality  is  enough 
to  set  a  young  artist  beanstalk  climbing.  But  the 
older  he  grows,  the  wiser,  the  more  versed  in  real- 
ity, the  less  he  trusts  his  imagination,  the  more, 
in  consequence,  his  imagination  flags  and  withers; 
till  he  ends  —  one  sees  it  happen  again  and  again 
—  as  the  recorder  merely  of  his  own  actual  experi- 
ences and  emotions.  It's  only  the  greatest  who  es- 
cape that  decay  of  the  imagination.  Do  you 
think  that  Madala  did?  Look  at  Eden  Watts. 
Remember  what  we  know  about  her.  Can't  you 
see  that  the  skeleton  of  Eden  Watts  is  Madala's 
own  life?  Consider  her  history.  She  leaves  what 
seems  to  have  been  a  happy  childhood  behind  her 
and  sets  out  on  adventure  —  very  young.  So  does 
the  woman  in  Eden  Walls.  The  parallel's  exact. 
Madala's  Westering  Hill  and  the  Breckonridge 
of  the  novel  are  the  same  place.  The  house,  the 
lane,  the  country-side,  she  doesn't  trouble  to  dis- 
95 


LEGEND 

guise  them.  Again  —  Madala's  adventure  is  ush- 
ered in  by  calamity :  and  tragedy  —  (you  can  see 
the  artist  transmuting  the  mere  physical  calamity 
into  tragedy)  tragedy  happens  to  the  woman  in 
Eden  Walls.  Remember  how  much  more  Madala 
dwelt  on  the  sense  of  loneliness  and  lovelessness, 
on  the  anguish  of  the  loss  of  something  to  love 
her,  than  on  what  one  might  call  the  —  er  —  offi- 
cial emotions  of  a  betrayed  woman.  Didn't  it 
strike  you?  Doesn't  that  show  that  she  was  de- 
pending on  her  experience  rather  than  on  her 
imagination,  fitting  her  own  private  grief  to  an 
imaginary  case?  Then,  in  America,  she  has  the 
struggle  for  meat  and  drink,  for  mere  existence. 
So  does  the  woman  in  Eden  Walls.  Madala  does 
not  go  under.  The  woman  in  Eden  Walls  does. 
It's  the  first  real  difference.  But  I  maintain  that 
in  reality  the  parallel  still  continues,  that,  in  im- 
agination, Madala  did  go  under  over  and  over 
again :  that  she  had  ever  in  front  of  her  the  *  sup- 
pose, suppose,'  that,  in  drawing  the  woman  in 
Eden  Walls,  she  is  saying  to  herself  — '  Here,  but 
for  the  grace  of  God,  go  I.'  And  then,  you  know, 
when  you  think  of  her,  hating  that  big  city,  sav- 
ing up  her  pennies,  and  coming  home  at  last  in 
a  passion  of  homesickness  (if  it  was  homesickness 
—  sickness  anyhow),  can't  you  see  how  it  makes 
her  write  of  that  other  woman?  It's  the  gift,  the 
genius,  stirring  in  her:  born,  not  immaculately, 
but  of  her  own  literal  experience.  Jasper's  right 
96 


LEGEND 

—  you  can   always   make   facts   fit  if  you   think 
them  out:  and  because  I  possess  that  underlying 
shadow-work   (I  admit  it's  no  more)   of  fact  to 
guide  me  in  deciphering  her  method  in  the  first 
book,  therefore,  in  the  second  book  and  the  third 
book,  I  find  it  safe  to  deduce  facts  to  cover  the 
stories,  even  when  I  don't  possess  them.     I  con- 
sider that  I'm  justified,  that  Eden  Walls  justifies 
me.     Don't  you?" 

"  It's  plausible,"  said  Mr.  Flood  thoughtfully. 

"  Oh,  it's  convincing,"  said  the  Baxter  girl  rev- 
erently. "  I  feel  I've  never  known  Madala  Grey 
before.  What  it  will  be  when  you  get  it  into 
shape,  Miss  Serle " 

"  In  fact,"  said  Miss  Howe,  "  there's  only  one 
drawback-—" 

"And  that?"  said  Anita  swiftly. 

"  Only  Madala's  own  account." 

"  She  never  discussed  her  methods,"  said  Anita 
sharply. 

"  Just  so !     You're  not  the  only  person  who's 

—  pumped.     I    remember    seeing    her    once    sur- 
rounded, in  her  lion  days.     I   remember  her  in- 
genuous explanations.     She  did  her  best  to  oblige 
them  — '  Honestly,  I  don't  know.     One  just  sits 
down   and   imagines.'     And   then  — *  That's   quite 
easy.     But  it's  awfully  difficult  writing  it  down.' 
That's  the  explanation,  Nita.     A  deliberate,  even 
unconscious     self-exploitation     is     all     nonsense. 
Madala's  not  clever  enough." 

97 


LEGEND 

"Not  clever  enough!" 

"  No.  You're  much  cleverer  than  she  was. 
You  have  twice  her  brains.  You  can't  think, 
Anita,  what  brains  you've  got.  You've  got  far 
too  many  to  understand  a  simple  person.  I  don't 
agree,  you  know,  with  '  genius.'  I  can't  throw  a 
word  like  that  about  so  lightly.  But  as  far  as  it 
went  with  Madala,  it  was  the  same  sort  of  genius 
that  makes  a  crocus  push  in  the  spring.  Your 
theory  —  oh,  it's  plausible,  as  Jasper  says,  but 
don't  you  see  that  it  destroys  all  the  charm  of 
her  work?  It's  the  innocence  of  her  knowledge, 
the  simplicity  of  her  attitude  to  her  own  insight 
that  to  me  is  moving.  She  touches  pitch,  yet  her 
fingers  are  clean.  It's  her  view  of  her  story  that 
arrests  one,  not  her  story,  not  her  facts,  not  her 
mere  plot." 

"  No,  the  plot  is  conventional,  I'll  grant  you 
that.  She  was  always  content  with  old  bottles." 

"  Yes,  and  when  the  new  wine  burst  them  and 
made  a  mess  on  the  carpet,  Madala  was  always  so 
surprised  and  indignant." 

Mr.  Flood  giggled. 

"  Pained  is  the  word,  dear  lady  —  surprised  and 
pained.  Do  you  remember  when  Eden  Walls  was 
banned?" 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  talked  to  you  about  it, 
Jasper,"  said  Miss  Howe  sharply. 

"I?  I  was  never  of  her  counsels.  But  I  got 
my  amusement  out  of  the  affair.  Dear,  delight- 
98 


LEGEND 

ful  woman?  She  behaved  like  a  schoolgirl  sent 
to  Coventry.  I  remember  congratulating  her  on 
the  advertisement,  and  she  would  hardly  speak 
to  me.  But  it  suited  her,  the  blush." 

"  Wasn't  it  an  advertisement ! "  said  the  Baxter 
girl  longingly. 

"  If  one  could  have  got  her  to  see  it,"  said 
Anita.  "  But  no,  she  insisted  on  being  ashamed  of 
herself.  She  said  to  me  once  that  the  critics  had 
*  read  in  '  things  that  she  had  never  dreamed  of 
—  that  it  made  her  doubt  her  own  motives  —  that 
she  felt  dirtied  and  miserable.  And  yet  she 
wouldn't  alter  one  of  those  scenes.  Obstinate! 
She  could  be  very  obstinate." 

"  Oh,  which  scenes  ?  "  The  Baxter  girl  stuck 
her  elbows  on  the  table  and  her  chin  in  her  fists. 
Her  eyes  sparkled.  "  Oh,  then,  Miss  Serle,  did 
you — ?  did  she  come  to  you  in  the  early  days? 
Did  you  help  her  too?  " 

"  My  daughter  —  very  kind  to  young  people !  " 

It  was  a  mere  mutter,  but  I  recognized  the 
swing  of  the  phrase.  Anita  didn't.  She  was  busy 
with  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  I  don't  say  that  there  would  be  no  Madala 
Grey  today  if  I " 

"  But "  said  Mr.  Flood. 

"  But  — "  said  Miss  Howe,  "  she's  Anita's  dis- 
covery. We're  never  to  forget  that,  are  we, 
darling?  " 

"  Oh,  I  knew  that,"  said  the  Baxter  girl,  trying 
99 


LEGEND 

to  be  tactful.  "  But  Eden  Walls  was  written  be- 
fore you  knew  her,  wasn't  it?  I  understood  —  I 
didn't  know,  I  mean,"  she  explained  to  them, 
"  that  Miss  Serle  had  —  blue-pencilled " 

"  I  did  and  I  didn't."  Anita  laughed,  as  if  in 
spite  of  herself.  "  I  confess  I  thought  at  the  time 
that  it  needed  revision.  Mind  you,  I  never  ques- 
tioned the  quality,  but  I  knew  what  the  public 
would  stand  and  what  it  wouldn't.  Of  course,  I 
didn't  want  the  essentials  altered.  But  there  were 

certain  cuts However,  nothing  would  move 

her." 

"  That's  funny.  She  never  gave  me  the  impres- 
sion that  she  believed  in  herself  so  strongly." 

"  Oh,  her  pose  was  diffidence,"  said  the  blonde 
lady. 

"  But  she  didn't  believe  in  herself.  It  was  obvi- 
ous. When  I  went  through  her  MS.  and  blue- 
pencilled,  she  was  most  grateful.  She  agreed  to 
everything  and  took  the  MS.  away  to  remodel." 

"And  then?" 

"  I  heard  nothing  more  of  her  —  for  weeks. 
Finally  I  wrote  and  asked  her  to  come  and  see  me. 
She  came.  She  was  delightful.  I  had  told  her, 
you  know,  about  the  Anthology  the  first  time  I 
met  her.  I  remember  that  I  was  annoyed  with 
myself  afterwards.  I'm  not  often  indiscreet. 
But  she  had  a  —  a  knack  —  a  way  with  her.  I 
hardly  know  how  to  describe  it." 

"  One  told  her  things,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 
100 


LEGEND 

"  Just  so.  One  told  her  things.  And  she  had 
brought  me  a  mass  of  material  —  some  charming 
American  verse  (you  remember?  in  the  last  sec- 
tion but  one)  that  I  had  never  come  across.  She 
had  been  reading  for  me  at  the  British  Museum 
in  her  spare  time.  I  confess  I  was  touched.  We 

talked,  I  remember "  She  sighed  reminis- 

cently.  "  It  was  not  until  she  made  a  move  to 
go  that  I  recollected  myself.  '  Well,'  I  said,  *  and 
how  about  Eden  Walls?  '  She  fidgeted.  She 
looked  thoroughly  guilty.  At  last  it  came  out. 
She  hadn't  altered  a  line.  She  had  tried  her  ut- 
most. She  had  drafted  and  re-drafted.  She  had 
finally  given  it  up  in  despair  and  just  got  work  in 
some  obscure  newspaper  office  — *  a  most  absorbing 
office ! '  But  there  —  you  know  Madala  when 
she's  interested  —  was  interested " 

"  Don't,"  said  Miss  Howe  softly. 

But  Anita  went  on  — 

"  '  Well  but  — '  I  said  to  her  —  «  that's  all  very 
well.  But  you're  not  going  to  abandon  Eden 
Walls,  are  you?  '  Then  it  all  came  out.  Yes, 
she  was.  She  knew  I  was  right.  She  wasn't 
conceited.  She  quite  saw  that  the  book  was  use- 
less. It  just  meant  that  she  couldn't  write  novels 
and  that  she  mustn't  waste  any  more  time.  *  But, 
my  dear  Miss  Grey,'  I  said,  '  you  mean  to  say 
that  you'd  rather  leave  the  book  unpublished  than 
alter  a  couple  of  chapters,  remodel  a  couple  of 
characters?'  *  But  I  can't,'  she  said,  <I  can't. 
101 


LEGEND 

They  happened  that  way.'  '  Then  make  them 
happen  differently,'  I  said.  But  no,  she  couldn't. 
*  Oh  well,'  I  said  at  last  — '  if  you're  so  absolutely 
sure  of  yourself,  if  you're  prepared  to  set  up 

your  judgment '  That  distressed  her.  I 

can  hear  her  now.  '  But  I  don't  set  up  my  judg- 
ment. I'll  burn  the  wretched  stuff  tomorrow  if 
you  say  it's  trash.  I  knew  it  would  be,  in  my 
heart.  But  —  I  can't  alter  it,  because  —  because 
it  happened  that  way.'  Then  I  had  an  idea.  *  To 
you  ?  '  I  said.  She  looked  at  me.  She  laughed. 
She  said  — '  Miss  Serle,  you've  written  ten  books 
to  my  one.  Don't  pretend  you  don't  know  how 
a  story  happens.'  "  Anita  nodded  at  us.  "  You 
see?  Evasive.  I  think  it  was  from  that  moment 
that  I  began  to  have  my  theory  of  her." 

"Well  — and  what  next?"  demanded  Miss 
Howe. 

"  She  would  have  said  good-bye  if  I  had  let 
her.  I  stopped  her.  '  Reconsider  it,'  I  said. 
She  beamed  at  me,  chastened  but  quite  cheerful. 
'  Oh,  I'll  try  another  some  day,'  she  said.  '  I 
suppose  I'm  not  old  enough.  I  was  a  fool  to 
think  I  could.'  At  that,  of  course,  I  gave  in. 
I  wasn't  going  to  lose  sight  of  Eden  Walls.  I 
told  her  to  bring  it  as  it  was  and  I'd  see  what  I 
could  do.  As  you  know,  Mitcheh1  and  Bent 
jumped  at  it." 

"  But  it  was  banned,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  Yes,  but  everybody  read  it.  You  can  get  it 
102 


LEGEND 

anywhere  now.     And  I  can  say  now  — '  Thank  the 
gods  she  didn't  touch  it.' " 

"  Then  she  was  right?  " 

"  Of  course  she  was  right.  I  knew  it  all  the 
time." 

"  And  she  didn't?  " 

"  Of  course  she  didn't.  Mine  was  critical 
knowledge.  Hers  the  mere  instinct  of  —  what- 
ever you  choose  to  call  it.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
critics.  She  didn't  know  enough  to  be  afraid." 

"  There's  something  big  about  you,  Anita ! " 
said  Miss  Howe  suddenly. 

Mr.  Flood  gave  the  oblique  flicker  of  eyes  and 
mouth  that  was  his  smile. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  it  fits  her  quite  well." 

"  What?  "  said  Anita  sharply. 

"  The  mantle,  dear  lady." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Ah  —  Gentle  dullness  ever  loves  a  joke. 
What,  Beryl?" 

"  I  don't  see,"  the  Baxter  girl  had  harked  back, 
"  how  you  can  call  a  book  that  has  been  banned 
conventional." 

"  Only  the  plot " 

"Ah,  that  plot!"  Nobody  could  snub  Mr. 
Flood.  "  Think,  dear  lady !  Village  maiden  — 
faithless  lover  —  lights  o'  London  —  unfortunate 
female  —  what  more  do  you  want?  " 

"  Of  course."     Anita  resumed  the  reins.     "  It's 
as  old  as  The  Vicar  of  WakefieU." 
103 


LEGEND 

"Oh,  that!"  The  Baxter  girl  looked  inter- 
ested. "  Do  you  know,  I've  never  seen  it.  One 
of  Irving's  shows,  wasn't  it?  " 

I  laughed.  I  couldn't  help  it.  But  they  were 
all  quite  solemn,  even  Anita.  But  then  she  never 
did  listen  to  the  Baxter  girl.  She  had  talked 
straight  through  her  sentences. 

"  But  it's  not  the  material.  It's  the  way  it's 
handled.  It's  never  been  done  quite  so  thoroughly, 
from  the  woman's  point  of  view  —  so  unadornedly. 
People  are  afraid  of  their  *  poor  girls.'  There's  a 
formula  that  even  the  Immortals  follow.  They 
are  all  young  and  beautiful,  and  they  all  die. 
They  must.  They  wouldn't  be  tragic  in  continua- 
tion. But  Madala's  woman  doesn't.  That's  the 
point.  There's  no  pretence  at  making  her  a  hero- 
ine. She's  just  the  ordinary  stupidish  sheep  of  a 
creature,  *  gone  wrong.'  There's  no  romantic 
halo,  no  love-glamour,  no  pity  and  terror,  just  the 
chronicle  of  a  sordid  life.  And  yet  you  can't  put 
the  book  down.  At  least  I  couldn't  put  it  down." 

"  Do  you  like  it?  "  I  said  to  Kent  Rehan,  as  he 
paused  beside  me  in  his  eternal  pacing  from  room 
to  room. 

He  looked  at  me  oddly. 

"  I  respect  it,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  like  it.  Peo- 
ple misjudged " 

"  If  it  had  been  the  recognized  love  story  "— 
Mr.  Flood's  high  voice  silenced  him  — "  the  regu- 
larized irregularity,  so  to  speak,  it  wouldn't  have 
104 


LEGEND 

been  banned.  It  was  the  absence  of  a  love  story 
that  the  British  public  couldn't  forgive.  It  was 
cheated.  It  was  shocked." 

"  But  there  is  a  love  story  at  the  beginning, 
isn't  there?  "  I  said.  "  I  haven't  read  far." 

Instantly  the  Baxter  girl  exhibited  me  — 

"  Yes,  imagine !     She  hasn't  read  it !  " 

"I've  read  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  I  said. 
And  then  I  was  annoyed  that  I  had  shown  I  was 
annoyed.  But  at  once  Miss  Howe  helped  me. 
Miss  Howe  was  always  nice  to  me. 

"  How  far  have  you  got?  Where  the  man  tires 
of  her?  Ah,  yes!  Well,  after  that  it's  just  her 
struggle.  She  —  she  earns  her  living  —  in  the  in- 
evitable way.  She  grows  into  a  miser.  She 
hoards." 

Mr.  Flood  looked  acute. 

"  That's  what  upset  them.  They  don't  mind  a 
Magdalen ;  but  Magdalen  unaware,  unrepentant, 
Magdalen  preserving  her  ill-gotten  gains  —  no, 
that's  not  quite  nice." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Howe.  «  If 
anyone  can't  feel  the  spirit  it's  written  in,  the 
passion  of  pity  —  I  think  it's  the  most  pitiful 
thing  I've  ever  read.  It  made  me  shiver.  That 

wretched    creature,     saving    and     sparing " 

And  then  to  me,  for  I  suppose  I  showed  I  was  in- 
terested — "  She  wants  to  get  away,  you  know,  to 
get  back  into  the  country.  It's  her  dream.  The 

homesickness " 

105 


LEGEND 

"I  suppose  such  a  woman  could ?"  said 

the  Baxter  girl. 

"  I  used  to  argue  it  with  Madala.  Madala  al- 
ways said  that,  with  some  people,  that  animal 
craving  for  some  special  place  was  like  love  — 
a  passion  that  could  waste  you.  She  said  that 
every  woman  must  have  some  devouring  passion, 
for  a  man,  or  a  child,  or  a  place  —  every  woman. 
And  that  for  a  beaten  creature  like  that,  it  would 
be  place  —  the  homing  instinct  of  a  cat  or  a  bird. 
And  mixed  up  with  it,  religion  —  the  vague  shad- 
owy ideal  of  peace  and  cleanly  beauty  —  all  that 
the  wretched  creature  tries  to  express  in  her 
phrase  — '  getting  out  and  living  quiet ' —  that 
Madala  typifies  in  the  word  '  Eden.'  It  meant 
much  to  Madala.  Don't  you  remember  that  pas- 
sage towards  the  end  of  the  book  where  she  meets 
the  man,  the  first  man,  and  brings  him  home  with 
her  —  and  he  doesn't  even  recognize  her,  and  she 
doesn't  even  care."  She  picked  up  a  bundle  of 
tattered  proofs  and  turned  them  over.  "  Where  is 
it?  What  an  appalling  hand  she  had!"  She 
stood  a  moment,  reading  a  page  and  pursing  her 
lips.  "  Oh,  well,  what's  the  use  of  reading  it  ? 
We  all  know  it."  She  flung  it  down. 

"  Let  me  see,"  I  said  to  the  Baxter  girl.      She 
drew  it  towards  me.     It  was  the  first  proof  I'd 
ever  seen.     It  was  corrected  till  it  was  difficult  to 
read.     But  I  made  it  out  at  last. 
106 


LEGEND 

With  the  closing  of  the  door  she  dismissed  him  with 
one  phrase  for  ever  from  her  mind  — 

"And  that's  that!" 

She  had  long  been  accustomed  thus  to  summarize  her 
clients,  dispassionately,  as  one  classes  beasts  at  a  show; 
and  she  judged  them,  not  by  their  clothing  or  their 
speech,  not  by  the  dark  endured  hours  of  their  love  or 
by  the  ticklish  after-moment  of  the  reckoning,  but  rather, 
as  she  hovered  at  the  door  with  her  provocative  night 
smile  dulled  to  a  business  friendliness,  by  their  manner 
of  leaving  her. 

Always  there  was  the  fever  to  be  gone;  but  some  went 
furtively,  with  cautious,  tiptoe  feet  that  set  the  stairs 
a-squeak  with  mockery.  Her  smile  did  not  change  for 
the  swaggerer  who  stayed  long  and  took  his  luck-kiss  twice, 
but  her  eyes  would  harden.  Mean,  cheating  mean,  to  kiss 
again  and  never  pay  again!  And  some  she  watched  and 
smiled  upon  who  left  her  in  a  brutal  silence.  For  them 
she  had  no  resentment,  rather  the  sullenness  beneath  her 
smile  reached  out  to  the  revulsion  of  their  bearing  as  to 
something  welcomed  and  akin.  And  some  gave  back  her 
smile  with  kindly  words  —  and  those  she  hated. 

But  when,  after  his  manner,  the  man  had  gone,  she  had, 
as  always,  her  ritual. 

She  locked  her  easy  door  and  pulling  out  the  key,  put 
it  before  her  on  the  table  at  the  bedside.  Left  and  right 
of  it  she  laid  her  money  down,  adding  to  the  night's  gains 
the  meagre  leavings  of  her  purse.  Left  and  right  the  lit- 
tle piles  grew,  one  heaped  high  for  the  needs  of  her  day 
and  her  night,  for  food  and  roof  and  livery,  and  one  a 
thin  scatter  of  coppers  and  small  silver  that  took  long 
weeks  to  change  into  the  dear,  the  exquisite,  the  Eden- 
opening  gold.  It  was  the  bigger  pile  that  she  thrust  so 
carelessly  back  into  her  bag,  and  the  scattered  ha'pence 
that  she  warmed  in  the  cup  of  her  two  hands,  holding  them, 
107 


LEGEND 

jingle- jingle,  at  her  ears,  dropping  them  to  her  lap  again 
to  count  anew,  piling  them  before  her  to  a  little,  narrowing 
tower,  before  she  opened  the  child's  jewel-case  beside  her, 
and,  lifting  the  sheaf  of  letters  that  she  never  read  but 
kept  still  and  would  always  keep,  for  the  savage  pain  they 
gave  her  when  her  eyes  saw  them  and  her  fingers  touched 
them,  she  poured  out  the  new  treasure  upon  the  sacred 
hoard  beneath. 

Tenpence  saved  —  and  yesterday  a  shilling!  Five  shil- 
lings last  week.  Fifty  pounds !  She  would  soon  have  fifty 
pounds ! 

She  put  away  the  box  of  money,  and  so,  surrendering 
at  last  to  the  awful  bodily  fatigue,  lay  down  again  upon 
the  tousled  bed,  not  to  sleep  —  her  sleeping  time  was  later 
in  the  day  —  but  to  shut  her  eyes. 

For,  by  the  amazing  pity  of  God,  a  secret  that  is  not 
every  man's,  was  hers  —  the  secret  of  the  refuge  appointed, 
behind  shut  eyes,  of  the  return  into  eternity  that  is  the 
shutting  down  of  lids  upon  the  eyes.  The  window  glare, 
the  screaming  street  below,  the  blank  soiled  ceiling  with 
the  flies,  the  walls,  the  unending  pattern  of  the  hateful 
walls,  the  clock,  the  finery,  the  beastly  scents,  the  loathed 
familiars  of  stuff  and  wood  and  brass  that  blinked  and 
creaked  at  her  like  voices  crying — "Misery!  misery!  mis- 
ery!"—  these  were  her  world.  Yet  not  her  only  world. 
She,  who  was  so  dim  and  blunted  a  woman-thing,  could 
pass,  with  the  warm  dark  velvet  touch  of  dropping  lids, 
not  into  the  nullity  of  sleep,  but  into  the  grey  place,  limit- 
less, timeless,  where  consciousness  knows  nothing  of  the  flesh 

She  shut  her  eyes  with  the  sigh  of  a  tired  dog,  and  in- 
stantly her  soul  lay  back  and  floated,  resting. 

There  was  no  time,  no  thought,  no  feeling.  There  was 
peace  —  quiet  —  greyness.  At  unmeasured  intervals  real- 
ization washed  over  her  like  waves,  waves  of  peace  —  quiet 
—  greyness.  Greyness  —  she  worshipped  the  blessed  grey- 
ness.  She  wanted  to  give  it  a  beloved  name  and  knew  none. 
108 


LEGEND 

'  When  I  am  dead ! ' — '  For  ever  and  ever,  Amen ! ' —  So 
she  came  nearest  to  'Eternity.' 

Peace  —  quiet  —  greyness:  greyness  enduring  for  ever, 
that  could  yet  be  rent  asunder  like  a  temple  veil  and  let  in 
misery  —  the  window  glare,  the  reeking  room,  the  clodding 
footsteps,  the  fingers  tapping  at  her  door  —  a  frail  eter- 
nity whose  walls  were  slips  of  flesh. 

She  called  harshly  — 

"Get  out!  Get  away!  Put  it  down  outside  then,  can't 
you  ?  " 

There  was  a  mutter  and  the  clank  of  a  scuttle-lid,  and  a 
thud.  The  footsteps  shuffled  out  of  hearing. 

She  shut  her  eyes  again. 

Peace  —  quiet  —  greyness.     The  waves  were  rocking  her. 

She  did  not  dream.  There  are,  by  that  same  pity  of 
God,  no  dreams  permitted  in  the  place  of  refuge.  But, 
as  she  lay  in  peace,  she  watched  her  own  memorial  thoughts 
rising  about  her,  one  by  one,  like  bubbles  in  a  glass,  like 
cocks  crowing  in  the  dark  of  the  dawn. 

A  white  road  ...  the  hill-top  wind  panting  down  it  like 
a  runner  .  .  .  dust  .  .  .  bright  blue  sky  .  .  .  sky-blue  suc- 
cory in  the  gutter  .  .  .  succory  is  so  difficult  to  pick  .  .  . 
tough  ...  it  leaves  a  green  cut  on  one's  finger  .  .  .  suc- 
cory in  a  pink  vase  on  the  mantel-piece  .  .  .  the  fire's  too 
hot  for  flowers  .  .  .  hot  buttered  toast  .  .  .  the  armchair 
wants  mending  .  .  .  the  horsehair  tickles  one's  ears  as  one 
lies  back  in  it  and  warms  one's  toes  and  watches  the  rain 
drowning  the  fields  outside  .  .  .  empty  winter  fields,  all 
tousled  and  tussocky  from  cow  dung  .  .  .  grey  skies  .  .  . 
snow  .  .  .  not  a  soul  in  sight  .  .  .  and  succory  in  a  pink 
vase  on  the  mantel-piece  .  .  .  because  one's  back  in  Eden 
.  .  .  summer  and  winter  are  all  one  in  Eden  .  .  .  picking 
buttercups  in  Eden  as  one  used  to  do  ...  all  the  fields 
grown  full  of  buttercups  .  .  .  fifty  buttercups  make  a  bunch 
.  .  .  fifty  golden  buttercups  with  the  King's  head  on  them 
109 


LEGEND 

.  .  .  hurry  up  with  the  buttercups  .  .  .  one  more  bunch  of 
buttercups  will  buy  back  Eden  —  Eden  —  ah ! 

So,  with  a  long  gasping  sigh  would  come  the  end. 
"  Eden  — "  and  the  longing  would  be  upon  her,  tearing  like 
a  wild  beast  at  her  eyes  and  her  throat  and  her  heart  — 
"  I  want  to  go  home.  Oh,  God,  let  me  go  home !  Let  me 
out!  I  want  to  go  home " 

The  chapter  ended. 

"And  does  she?  "  I  looked  up  at  the  Baxter 
girl.  "  I'm  always  afraid  of  a  bad  ending.  Does 
she  get  back  in  the  end?  " 

fThe  Baxter  girl  fluttered  through  the  pages. 

"  The  money's  stolen  first  —  a  man  takes  it 

—  while  she's  asleep Oh,  it's  beastly,  that 

scene.  She  has  to  save  it  all  up  again.  It  takes 
her  years.  But  —  oh,  yes,  she  does  go  back." 

"  The  railway  journey,"  said  Miss  Howe.  "  Do 
you  remember?  " 

"  If  you  want  happy  endings  " —  the  Baxter  girl 
flattened  out  the  last  page  with  a  jerk — "there 
you  are ! " 

I  read  over  her  shoulder.  The  strong  scent 
that  hung  about  her  seemed  to  float  between  me 
and  the  page. 

"  Here  we  are  —  where  she  gets  to  the  station. 
'  Eden,'  Madala  calls  it,  but  the  woman  calls  it 
'  Breckonridge.' 

At  last  and  at  last  the  station-board  with  the  familiar 
name  flashed  past  her  window.     She  thrilled.     The  station 
lamps  repeated  it  as  the  train  slowed  down.    She  thought  — 
110 


LEGEND 

how  long  the  platform's  grown!  ...  a  bookstall!  ...  a 
bookstall  on  each  side !  .  .  .  there  used  not  to  be  ...  wasn't 
the  station  smaller?  .  .  . 

She  spoke  to  the  ticket  collector  shyly,  blushing,  like 
a  girl  going  to  an  assignation  and  thinking  that  all  the  world 
must  know  it. 

He  answered,  already  catching  at  the  ticket  of  the  trav- 
eller behind  her  — 

"How  far  to  Breckonridge?  A  mile,  maybe  —  but  you 
get  the  tram  at  the  corner." 

She  stared.  She  would  have  questioned  him  again,  but 
the  throng  of  people  pressed  her  forward. 

A  tram  through  the  village  ?  .  .  .  queer !  .  .  .  not  that 
it  mattered  to  her  ...  she  would  take  the  old  short  cut 
through  the  fields  outside  the  station  yard.  .  .  .  There  was 
a  stile  .  .  .  and  a  wild  cherry  tree.  .  .  . 

She  left  the  yard,  the  unfamiliar  yard  with  asphalt  and 
motors  and  a  great  iron  bridge,  crossed  the  road,  and 
stopped  bewildered. 

There  were  no  fields. 

'Station  Road.'  The  labelled  yellow  villas  were  like  a 
row  of  faces.  Eyes,  nose,  mouth  —  windows,  porch,  steps 
—  steps  like  teeth.  They  grinned. 

In  a  sort  of  panic  she  ran  past  them  down  the  road,  a 
lumbering,  clumsy  woman.  She  trod  on  her  skirt,  and 
recovered  herself  with  difficulty.  She  heard  a  small  boy 
laugh  and  call  after  her.  She  clambered  on  to  the  tram. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  the  village  —  to  Breckonridge " 

"It's  all  Breckonridge.    'Ow  far?" 

She  stared. 

"I  don't  remember.     He  said  a  mile." 

"Town  'All,  I  expect."    He  took  his  toll  and  passed  on. 

She   turned    vaguely   to   a  neighbour. 

"Town  Hall?  I  don't  remember.  The  road's  all  dif- 
ferent Where  are  the  fields?" 

The  neighbour  nodded. 

Ill 


LEGEND 

"Built  over.  When  were  you  here  last?  Thirty  years? 
My  word,  you'll  find  changes!  I  notice  it,  even  in  five. 
Very  full  it's  getting.  Good  train  service.  My  husband 
can  get  to  his  office  under  the  hour." 

She  said  dazedly  — 

"It  was  — it  is  — a  little  village." 

The  woman   laughed. 

"I  daresay.     But  how  long  ago?" 

"There  were  fields,"  she  said  under  her  breath.  "There 
were  flowers  — 

"Here's  the  Town  Hall.  Didn't  you  want  the  Town 
Hall?" 

Unsteadily  she  rose  and  got  out.  The  tram  clanged  for- 
ward. 

She  stood  on  an  island  where  four  roads  met  and  looked 
about  her.  The  sun  stared  down  at  her,  a  brazen  city  sun. 
The  asphalt  was  hot  and  soft  under  her  feet.  Road-menders 
were  at  work  in  the  fair-way.  They  struck  alternately  at 
the  chisel  beween  them  and  it  was  as  if  the  rain  of  blows 
fell  upon  her.  She  felt  stupid  and  dizzy.  She  did  not  know 
where  to  turn.  There  was  nothing  left  of  her  village,  and 
yet  the  place  was  familiar.  There  were  drab  houses  and 
rows  of  shops  and  a  stream  of  traffic,  and  the  figures  of 
women  and  men  —  menacing,  impersonal  figures  of  men  — 
that  hurried  towards  her  down  the  endless  streets. 

"Well?"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

«'  But  that's  not  the  end?  "  I  said. 

The  Baxter  girl  looked  at  me  oddly. 

"  Why  not?  "  And  then  — "  How  else  could  it 
end?  How  would  you  make  it  end?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean "  I  began.  I  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand,"  I  said. 

That  was  the  truth.  At  the  time  I  couldn't 
112 


LEGEND 

follow  it.  It  moved  me.  It  swept  me  along.  But 
whether  it  was  good  or  bad  I  didn't  know.  I 
hadn't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  it  was  driving 
at.  I  felt  in  a  vague  way  that  the  people  at  home 
wouldn't  have  liked  it. 

"  What  does  it  mean?  "  I  said  to  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  That  you  can't  eat  your  cake  and  have  it,  I 
suppose.  You  can  get  out  of  Eden,  but  you  can't 
get  back." 

Anita  answered  her  contemptuously  — 

"  Is  that  all  it  means  to  you  ?  " 

And  yet  we  had  spoken  very  softly.  But  Anita 
had  eyes  that  ate  up  every  movement  in  a  room, 
and  her  small  pretty  ears  never  seemed  to  miss  a 
significant  word  though  ten  people  were  talking. 
I  had  seen  her  glance  uneasily  at  us  and  again  at 
the  two  in  the  other  room.  I  knew  Great-aunt's 
mutter  was  too  low  even  for  her,  and  Kent  Rehan 
only  nodded  now  and  then,  but  even  that  annoyed 
her.  She  lifted  her  own  voice  to  be  sure  that  they 
should  hear  all  that  she  said,  as  if  afraid  lest,  even 
for  a  moment,  she  should  be  left  out  of  their 
thoughts. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said  loudly  and  contemptuously,  "  I 
tell  you  what  7  see." 

She  succeeded,  if  that  pleased  her.  Kent  Rehan 
raised  his  head  and  stared  across  at  her  with  that 
impersonal  expression  of  attention  that,  I  was 
beginning  to  realize,  could  always  anger  her  on  any 
face.  She  had  said  a  little  while  ago  that  she  only 
113 


LEGEND 

cared  for  Miss  Grey  as  an  artist,  and  I  believe  that 
she  believed  it.  But  I  don't  think  —  I  shall  never 
think  it  true.  I  think  Anita  depended  —  depends, 
on  other  people  more  than  she  dreams.  Poor 
Anita !  I  can  see  her  now,  her  whole  personality 
challenging  those  dark  abstracted  eyes.  But  she 
spoke  to  the  Baxter  girl  — 

"  When  Madala  Grey  chose  Eden  Walls  for  her 
title  —  when  she  flung  it  in  the  public  face  — 

I  saw  him  give  a  shrug  of  fatigue  or  distaste  — 
I  couldn't  tell  which.  Great-aunt,  who  had  been 
sitting,  her  head  on  one  side,  with  her  sharp 
poll-parrot  expression,  crooked  her  finger  at  me. 
I  went  across  to  her  and  behind  me  I  heard  the 
Baxter  girl  — 

"  You  talk  as  if  she  were  in  a  passion " 

And  Anita  — 

"  So  she  was.  I'm  telling  you.  It's  the  wrongs, 
not  of  one  woman,  but  of  all  women,  of  all  ages 
of  women,  that  burn  behind  it." 

"Votes  for  Women!"  It  was  Mr.  Flood's 
voice. 

There  was  a  laugh  and  I  lost  an  answer.  I 
caught  only  a  vehement  blur  of  words,  because 
Great-aunt  had  me  by  the  wrist. 

"  Chatter,  chatter!  I  can't  hear  'em.  What's 
my  daughter  talking  about?  " 

I  hesitated. 

"  About  books,  Auntie." 

"Whose  books?"   she  pounced. 
114 


LEGEND 

"  Some  writer,  Auntie." 

"  What's  she  saying  about  her,  eh?  "  She  held 
me  bent  down  to  her.  I  glanced  at  Kent  Rehan. 
He  was  listening  to  us.  I  felt  harried. 

"  About  —  oh  —  whether  a  genius  —  whether 
she  was  a  genius " 

"Madala,  eh?" 

"  Yes,  Auntie." 

I  thought  I  heard  him  sigh.  And  at  that  — 
why,  I  don't  know  —  I  turned  on  him.  I  was 
rude,  I  believe.  I  sounded  silly  and  cruel,  I  know. 
Yet,  heaven  knows,  that  that  was  the  last  thing 
I  wanted  to  be. 

I  said  angrily  to  him  — 

"  Oh,  why  do  you  stand  there  and  listen?  Don't 
you  see  that  I  can't  help  myself?  Why  don't  you 
go  away?  What  good  can  it  do  you  to  stay  here, 
to  stay  and  listen  to  it  all?  " 

Then  I  stopped  because  he  looked  at  me  for  a 
moment,  and  flushed,  and  then  did  turn  away,  back 
again  to  his  old  dreary  post  at  the  street  window. 

Great-aunt  chuckled. 

"That's  right,  little  Jenny.  Take  your  own 
way  with  them,  Jenny !  " 

I  said  — 

"  Let  me  go,  Auntie  dear,"  and  I  loosed  her  hand 
from  my  wrist  and  went  after  him;  for  of  course 
the  instant  the  words  were  out  of  my  mouth  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself.  I  couldn't  think  what  had 
possessed  me.  I  was  badly  ashamed  of  myself. 
115 


LEGEND 

I  came  to  him  and  said  — 

"  Mr.  Rehan  —  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude. 
Great-aunt  —  she  doesn't  understand.  She  made 
me  talk.  It  wasn't  rudeness ;  but  you  stood  there, 
and  I  knew  —  I  thought  I  knew,  what  you  must 
think,  must  be  thinking — "  (but  '  feeling  '  was  the 
word  I  meant)  "  and  I  was  sorry.  I  was  angry  be- 
cause I  was  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude." 

He  said  — 

"  It's  all  right.     I  didn't  think  you  rude." 

Then  I  said  - 

"But  I  meant  it.  Why  do  you  stay?  What 
good  can  it  do  you?  Why  don't  you  go  away 
from  it  all?" 

And  he  — 

"  Where  is  there  to  go  ?  I've  been  tramping  all 
day." 

"Where?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Up  and  down  streets.  It's  — 
it's  blinding,  it's  stifling ' 

"The  fog  is,"  I  said  quickly.  But  we  didn't 
mean  the  fog. 

He  let  himself  down  into  the  low  wicker  chair. 
I  stood  leaning  against  the  sill,  watching  him. 

"  You're  just  dead  tired,"  I  said. 

He  nodded.  Then,  as  if  something  in  my  words 
had  stung  him  — 

"  Where  else?  I've  always  come  here.  Every 
month.  It  was  natural  to  come." 

"  But  now  — "  I  said  (and  I  was  so  urgent  with 
116 


LEGEND 

him  because  of  all  their  talk  that  drummed  still  in 
my  mind  like  a  wasps'  nest)  — "  I'd  go  away  if  I 
were  you.  What  good  does  it  do  you?  They 
talk.  It's  —  it's  rather  hateful.  I've  been  listen- 
ing. I'd  go." 

"  Where?  "  he  said  again.  And  I  — 
"  Haven't  you  anyone  —  at  home  ?  " 
But  as  I  asked  I  knew  that  he  hadn't.  He 
had  the  look.  Oh,  he  wore  good  clothes  and  I 
knew  he  wasn't  poor,.  But  it  was  written  all  over 
him  that  he  looked  after  himself  and  did  it  expen- 
sively and  badly.  He  had,  too,  that  other  look 
that  goes  with  it  —  of  a  man  who  has  never  found 
anyone  more  interesting  to  him  than  himself.  And 
the  queer  part  was  that  it  didn't  seem  selfish  in 
him  —  and  I'm  sure  it  wasn't.  It  was  just  like 
the  way  a  child  takes  you  for  granted,  and  tells 
you  about  its  own  big  affairs,  and  never  guesses 
that  you  have  your  own  little  affairs  too.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  a  fault  in  him ;  but  it  made  me  like  him. 
And  he  talked  to  me  simply  and  almost  as  if  he 
needed  helping  out;  as  if  he'd  been  just  anybody. 
I  never  had  to  help  out  anyone  before:  it  had 
always  been  the  other  way  round.  I'd  thought, 
too,  that  celebrated  people  were  always  superior 
and  brilliant  and  overwhelming,  like  Anita  and 
Mr.  Flood.  But  he  wasn't.  He  was  as  simple  as 
A,  B,  C.  I  liked  him.  I  did  like  him.  I  felt 
happier,  more  at  peace,  standing  there  with  him 
than  I  had  felt  since  I  had  been  in  Anita's  house. 
117 


LEGEND 

I  think  he  would  have  gone  on  talking  to  me  too, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Baxter  girl.  She  spoilt 
it.  She  tilted  back  her  chair,  yawning,  and  so 
caught  sight  of  us,  and  laughed,  and  leaning  over 
to  Miss  Howe,  whispered  in  her  ear.  She  was  a 
crazy  girl.  At  once  I  got  up  and  came  across  to 
them,  panic-stricken,  hating  her.  I  had  to.  I 
didn't  want  him  worried,  and  you  never  knew  what 
hateful  thing  the  Baxter  girl  wouldn't  say,  and 
think  that  she  was  pleasing  you. 

But  without  knowing  it,  Anita  helped  me.  Her 
voice,  rising  excitedly  in  answer  to  some  word  of 
Mr.  Flood's,  recalled  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  Mystery  ?  Of  course  there's  a  mystery !  She 
was  at  the  height  of  her  promise  in  Ploughed 
Fields.  It's  as  good  as  Eden  Walls  in  matter  and, 
technically,  better  still.  The  third  book  ought  to 
have  settled  her  place  in  modern  literature  for  good 
and  all.  It  ought  to  have  been  her  master-piece. 
But  what  does  she  do?  We  expect  a  chaplet  of 
pearls,  and  she  gives  us  a  daisy-chain.  Isn't  that 
a  mystery  worth  solving?  Won't  people  read 
the  Life  for  that  if  for  nothing  else?  Am  I  the 
only  person  who  has  asked  what  happened  to  her 
between  her  second  and  her  third  books  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  but  you  won't  listen,"  Mr.  Flood 
insisted.  "  Your  romantic  has  become  a  realist 
and  is  flying  from  it  to  the  resting-place  of  ro- 
mance." 

"I  do  listen.  Just  so.  You  use  your  words 
118 


LEGEND 

and  I  use  mine,  but  we  mean  the  same  thing. 
She's  been  bruising  herself  against  facts.  She 
has  been  walled  up  by  facts.  Her  vision  is  gone. 
Now  what  was,  in  her  case,  the  all-obscuring 
fact?" 

"  She  was  a  woman,"  said  the  blonde  lady.  "  It 
could  only  be  one  thing.  Don't  I  know  the  signs? 
She  even  lost  her  sense  of  humour." 

"Yes,  she  did,  didn't  she?"  cried  the  Baxter 
girl  in  a  voice  of  relief.  "  Oh,  I  remember  one 
day,  just  before  the  engagement  was  an- 
nounced   " 

"  As  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Anita  scornfully. 

" —  and  she'd  been  so  absent-minded  I  couldn't 
get  anything  out  of  her.  I  thought  I  knew  her 
well  enough  to  tease  her.  I  had  told  her  all  my 
affairs.  So  — *  I  believe  you're  in  love,'  I  said. 
*  Oh,  well,  you'll  get  over  it.  It's  a  phase.'  Was 
there  any  harm  in  that?  It  was  only  repeating 
what  you  had  said  to  me  about  her,  you  know," 
she  reminded  the  blonde  lady.  "  But  she  froze 
instantly.  She  made  no  comment.  She  just 
changed  the  subject.  But  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been 
introduced  to  a  new  Madala.  I  wished  I  hadn't 
said  it." 

"  You  are  a  little  fool,  Beryl,"  said  the  blonde 
lady  tolerantly. 

"  But  she  was  altered,"  insisted  the  Baxter  girl. 
"  The  old  Madala  would  have  laughed." 
119 


LEGEND 

"Yes,  she  was  altered,"  said  Anita.  "Her 
whole  attitude  to  herself  and  her  work  changed 
that  spring.  How  she  horrified  me  one  day.  It 
was  soon  after  Ploughed  Fields  came  out,  and  we 
were  talking  about  her  new  book,  at  least  I  was, 
pumping  a  little,  I  confess,  and  suddenly  she  said 
— *  Anita,  I  don't  think  I'll  write  any  more.  This 
stuff  — '  she  had  her  hands  on  Eden  Walls,  *  it's 
harsh,  it's  ugly;  and  so's  Ploughed  Fields.  Isn't 
it?  '  *  It's  true  to  life,'  I  said,  *  that's  the  triumph 
of  it.'  *  Is  it?  '  she  said.  She  looked  at  me  in  an 
uneasy  sort  of  way.  And  then  — '  I'd  like  to  write 
a  kind  book,  a  beautiful  book.'  I  told  her  that 
she  couldn't,  that  she  was  a  realist.  '  That's 
why,'  she  said,  '  I  don't  think  I'll  write  any  more.' 
I  laughed,  of  course.  Anybody  would  have 
laughed.  '  Oh,'  she  said,  '  I  mean  it.  I  haven't 
an  idea  in  my  head.  I'm  tired  and  empty.  I 
think  I  shall  go  away  for  a  wander.  There's  al- 
ways the  country,  anyhow.'  '  Well,  Madala,'  I 
said,  '  I  think  you're  ungrateful.  You're  a  made 
woman.  You've  got  your  name :  you've  got  your 
line :  you've  got  your  own  gift  —  '  Oh,  that ! ' 

she  said,  as  if  she  were  flicking  off  a  fly.  I  was 
irritated.  It  was  so  arrogant.  '  What  more  do 
you  want?'  I  asked  her.  *  What  more  can  you 
want?  '  She  said  — *  I  don't  know,'  looking  at  me, 
you  know,  as  if  she  expected  me  to  tell  her.  I  dis- 
liked that  mood  of  hers.  One  did  expect,  with  a 
woman  of  her  capacity,  to  be  entertained  as  it 
120 


LEGEND 

were,  to  have  ideas  presented,  not  to  be  asked  to 
provide  them.  Then  she  began,  a  propos  of  noth- 
ing at  all  — '  If  I  ever  marry '  That 

startled  me.  We'd  never  touched  on  the  subject 
before.  *  Oh,  my  dear  Madala,'  I  said,  *  you  must 
never  think  of  anything  so  —  so  unnecessary. 
For  you,  of  all  people,  it  would  be  fatal.  It 
would  waste  your  time,  it  would  distract  your 
thoughts,  it  would  narrow  your  outlook,  it  would 
end  by  spoiling  your  work  altogether.  I've  seen 
it  happen  so  often.  It's  terrible  to  me  even  to 
think  of  a  woman  with  a  future  like  yours,  throw- 
ing it  away  just  for  the '  She  interrupted 

me.  '  I  wouldn't  marry  for  the  sake  of  getting 
married,  if  you  mean  that.  Not  even  for  chil- 
dren.' " 

"  You  didn't  mean  that,  did  you,  Anita?  "  said 
Miss  Howe  smiling  a  little. 

"  Certainly  not.  But  I  had  always  been  afraid 
that  she  might  be  tempted  to  marry  for  the 
adventure's  sake,  for  the  mere  experience,  for 
the " 

"  Copy,"  said  Mr.  Flood.  "  I  always  said  so. 
Yes?" 

"  *  Oh  well,  Madala,'  I  said  to  her,  *  you  know 
what  I  think.  I'm  not  one  to  quote  Kipling,  but 
—  He  travels  fastest  who  travels  alone.1  She 
looked  at  me  so  strangely.  '  Alone?  '  she  said. 
*  Alone.  Its  the  cruellest  word  in  the  language. 
There's  drowning  in  it.'  '  Well,  without  conceit, 
121 


LEGEND 

Madala,'  I  said,  '  I  can  affirm  that  I  have  been 
alone,  spiritually,  all  my  life.'  *  Ah,  yes,'  she 
said,  '  but  you're  different.'  And  that,"  Anita 
broke  off,  "  was  what  I  liked  in  Madala.  She  did 
recognize  differences.  She  could  appreciate.  She 
wasn't  absorbed  in  herself.  She  said  to  me  quite 
humbly  — '  I'm  not  strong,  I  suppose ;  but  I  don't 
suffice  myself.  I  can't  bear  myself  sometimes.  I 
can't  bear  the  burden  of  myself.  Can't  you  under- 
stand? '  «  Frankly,'  I  said,  '  I  can't.  I'm  a  mod- 
ern woman,  and  the  modern  woman  is  a  pioneer. 
She's  the  Columbus  of  her  own  individuality.  She 
must  be.  It's  her  career.  It's  her  destiny.'  She 
answered  me  pettishly,  like  a  naughty  child  — 
'  I  don't  want  to  be  a  pioneer.'  '  You're  that,'  I 
said,  '  already,  whether  you  want  to  be  or  not.' 
Then  she  said  to  me,  with  that  dancing,  impish 
look  that  her  eyes  and  her  lips  and  her  white  teeth 
used  to  manage  between  them  — '  All  right !  If 
I've  got  to  be,  I  will.  But  I'll  be  a  pioneer  in 
my  own  way.  I  swear  I'll  shock  the  lot  of  you.'  " 

"  Oho!  "  said  Mr.  Flood  with  exaggerated  unc- 
tion. 

"  Exactly !  "  Anita  gave  his  agreement  such 
eager  welcome.  "  That  put  me  on  the  qui-vive. 
Knowing  her  as  I  did,  it  was  a  very  strong  hint. 
I  awaited  developments.  Frankly,  I  was  prepared 
for  a  scandal,  a  romance,  anything  you  please  in 
the  way  of  extravagance.  That's  why  the  Carey 
marriage,  that  tameness,  upset  me  so.  It  was 
122 


LEGEND 

not  what  I  was  expecting.  Really,  I  don't  know 
which  was  more  of  a  shock  to  me,  The  Resting- 
place  or  the  marriage.  Hardly  had  I  recovered 
from  the  one  when " 

"  Oh,  The  Resting-place  was  the  shock  of  my 
life  too."  He  giggled.  "  I  mourned,  I  assure 
you  that  I  mourned  over  it.  That  opening,  you 
know  — *  There  was  once  ' —  And  the  end  again  — 
'  So  they  were  married  and  had  children  and  lived 
happily  ever  after.'  Pastiche !  And  then  to  be 
invited  to  wade  through  a  conscientious  account 
of  how  they  achieved  it !  Too  bad  of  Madala !  As 
if  the  poor  but  virtuous  artist's  model  weren't  a 
drug  on  the  market  already !  And  the  impecuni- 
ous artist  himself  —  stooping,  you  know!  Oh,  I 
sat  in  ashes." 

Miss  Howe  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Jasper,  I  love  you.  I  do  love  you.  Did  she 
pull  your  leg  too?  Both  legs?  She  did!  She 
did !  Oh,  there's  only  one  Madala !  " 

Mr.  Flood's  vanity  was  in  his  cheeks  while  she 
rattled  on. 

"  Darling  Jasper,  I  thought  better  of  you ! 
Can't  you  see  the  whole  thing's  a  skit?  Giving 
the  jampot  public  what  they  wanted!  Why,  it's 
been  out  a  year  and  they're  sucking  the  spoon 
still.  It's  the  resting-place !  Ask  the  libraries ! 
Oh,  can't  you  see?  " 

"  If  it  is  parody,"  said  Mr.  Flood  slowly,  "  then, 
I  admit,  it's  unique." 

123 


LEGEND 

"What  else?  You'll  not  deny  humour  to 
her?  " 

"  I  do ! "  the  blonde  lady  nodded  her  head. 
"  Once  a  woman  is  in  love  she's  quite  hopeless." 

"  I  don't  see  how  parody  could  be  in  question," 
Anita  broke  in.  "Anybody  reading  the  book 
carefully  must  see  that  she's  in  earnest.  That's 
the  tragedy  of  it." 

"The  literary  tragedy?" 

"  Not  only  literary.  The  psychological  value  is 
enormous.  It's  not  art,  it's  record.  It's  photog- 
raphy. That  happened.  That  happened,  trag- 
ically, to  Madala.  Oh,  not  the  trimmings,  of 
course,  not  the  happy-ever-after.  But  to  me  it's 
perfectly  clear  that  that  lapse  into  Family  Herald 
romance  has  had  its  equivalent  in  Madala's  own 
life.  I've  always  felt  a  certain  weakness  in  her 
character,  you  know  —  a  certain  sentimentalism." 

"  In  the  author  of  Eden  Walls?  "  said  Miss 
Howe  contemptuously. 

"  No,  dear  lady !  But  in  the  author  of  The 
Resting-place."  Mr.  Flood  had  recovered  him- 
self. 

"Skit,  I  tell  you,  skit!"  she  insisted.  And 
they  continued  to  bicker  in  undertones  while  Anita 
summed  up  the  situation. 

"  No,  my  theory  is  this  —  Madala  Grey  met 
some  man " 

"Carey?"  asked  Mr.  Flood,  dividing  his  al- 
legiance. 

124 


LEGEND 

"  No,  Carey  comes  later.  There  was  —  an 
episode " 

"Episodes?"  he  amended. 

"  Possibly.  But  an  episode  anyhow,  that  I 
place  myself  at  the  end  of  the  Ploughed  Fields 
period.  It  may  have  been  later,  it  may  have 
been  the  following  summer  while  she  was  working 
at  The  Resting-place.  I'm  open  to  conviction 
there.  But  an  episode  there  must  have  been.. 
In  The  Resting-place  she  wrote  it  down  as  it 
ought  to  have  happened." 

"Why  ought?" 

"  Well,  obviously  it  didn't  happen  or  she 
wouldn't  have  become  Mrs.  Carey." 

"  The  gentleman  loved  and  rode  away,  you 
mean?" 

"  Something  of  the  sort.  Something  went 
wrong." 

"  I  see."  Miss  Howe  was  interested.  "  It's  a 
theory,  anyhow.  And  then  in  sheer  savage  irony 
at  her  own  weakness " 


Not  a  bit.     In  sheer  weak  longing 


"  I  see.  If  your  theory  is  correct  —  I  don't 
know  what  you  base  it  on " 

"  Internal  evidence,"  said  Anita  airily. 

"  Then  I  can  imagine  that  The  Resting-place 
was  a  relief  to  write.  Poor  Madala  !  " 

"  And  then,"  concluded  Anita  triumphantly, 
"  then  appears  Carey,  and  she's  too  worn  out,  too 
exhausted  with  her  own  frustrated  emotions  to 
125 


LEGEND 

care  what  happens.  The  book's  in  her  head  still, 
and  she  her  own  heroine.  He  appears  to  her  —  I 
admit  that  it's  possible  that  even  Carey  might  ap- 
pear to  her  —  as  a  refuge,  a  resting-place." 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  like  Mr.  Carey,"  said  the 
Baxter  girl.  "  But  if  Madala  did?  Isn't  it  pos- 
sible that  in  Madala's  eyes ?  Why  shouldn't 

the  hero  be  Mr.  Carey  himself?  " 

Anita's  eyes  were  bright  with  the  cold  anger 
that  she  always  showed  at  the  name. 

"  My  good  girl,  you  know  nothing  about  John 
Carey,  or  you'd  rule  that  out.  Have  you  ever  seen 
him?  I  thought  not.  And  yet  you  have  seen 
him.  All  day.  Every  day.  When  you  talk  of 
the  man  in  the  street,  whom  do  you  mean?  What 
utterly  common-place  face  is  in  your  mind?  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  is  in  mine?  John  Carey.  Ordi- 
nary !  Ordinary !  The  apotheosis  of  the  unin- 
spired !  Oh,  I  haven't  any  words.  Look  for  your- 
self." She  rummaged  furiously  in  the  half-opened 
desk  and  flung  out  a  fading  snapshot  on  a 
mount.  "There  he  is!  That's  the  thing  she 
married!  " 

"What's  he  doing  in  your  holy  of  holies?" 
Mr.  Flood's  eyes  seemed  to  bore  into  her  desk. 

Anita,  still  thrusting  down  the  overflowing 
papers,  answered  coldly  — 

"  Madala  sent  it  to  Mother.  She  said  that  it 
wasn't  good  enough  but  that  it  would  give  her  an 
idea." 

126 


LEGEND 

"  It  certainly  gives  one  an  idea,"  said  the  blonde 
lady  languorously. 

"  And  then  she  put  in  a  post-script  that  it  didn't 
do  him  justice  because  the  sun  was  in  his  eyes. 
Defiantly,  as  it  were.  Isn't  that  significant? 
She'd  never  own  to  a  mistake.  Pride !  She  had 
the  devil's  own  pride.  Look  at  the  way  she  took 
her  reviews !  And  in  this  case  she  would  be  bound 
to  defend  him.  She'd  defend  anything  she'd  once 
taken  under  her  wing." 

"Well,  you  know,"  drawled  the  blonde  lady, 
her  eyes  on  the  photograph,  "  according  to  this 
he  topped  her  by  two  inches.  I  don't  somehow 
see  him  under  Madala's  wing."  And  then  — 
"  After  all,  there's  something  rather  fascinating 
in  bone  and  muscle." 

"  Yes,  and  I  don't  see,"  the  Baxter  girl  hur- 
ried into  defiance,  "  honestly  I  don't  see,  Miss 
Serle,  why  she  shouldn't  have  been  in  love  with 
him.  Of  course,  it's  not  a  clever  face,  but  it's 
good-tempered,  and  it's  good-looking,  and  there's 
a  twinkle.  Madala  loved  a  twinkle.  And  I  don't 


Anita  crushed  her. 

"  We're   discussing   the    standards    of   Madala 
Grey." 

"That's   not    the   point    either,   Anita."     Mr. 
Flood  would  sometimes  rouse  himself  to  defend  the 
Baxter  girl.     "You  know  something.     You  own 
to  it.     What  do  you  know?  " 
127 


LEGEND 

"  Simply  that  she  was  in  love  with  someone 
else.  I've  papers  that  prove  it.  Now  it  was 
either  some  man  whom  none  of  us  know,  whom  for 

some  reason  she  wouldn't  let  us  know,  or " 

she  hesitated.  Then  she  began  again  — "  Mind 
you,  I  don't  commit  myself,  but  —  has  the  like- 
ness never  struck  you?  Hugh  Barrington  in  The 
Resting-place  and ?  "  Her  eyes  flickered  to- 
wards Kent  Rehan. 

Mr.  Flood  whistled. 

"  Be  careful,  Anita." 

"He?"  Miss  Howe  laughed,  but  kindly. 
"  He's  lost  to  the  world.  He'll  be  worse  than  ever 
now." 

"  There !  "  Anita  dropped  upon  the  sentence 
like  a  hawk  upon  a  heather  bird.  "  You  see ! 
You  say  that !  And  yet  you  tell  me  there  was 
nothing  —  nothing  —  between  them?  Didn't  she 
rave  about  him?  his  talents?  his  personality?  his 
charm?  And  then  she  goes  and  writes  the  story 
of  an  artist's  model !  " 

Miss  Howe  laughed  again. 

"  When  a  thing's  as  obvious  as  that,  it  probably 
isn't  so.  Besides,  the  artist's  model  marries  the 
artist." 

"  Exactly.     She  leaves  them,  and  us,  cloyed  with 

love  in  a   cottage.     I   repeat,   the   artist's  model 

marries   the  artist  because  Madala  Grey  didn't. 

It's  the  merest  shadow  of  a  solution  as  yet,  but 

128 


LEGEND 

— isn't   that   a   living   portrait   in   The  Resting- 
place?     Oh,  I  know  it  by  heart  — 

"  Maybe  it  was  his  height  that  gave  you  the  impression, 
less  of  weakness  than  of  vagueness,  as  if  his  high  forehead 
touched  cloud-land,  and  were  obscured  by  dreams;  for  his 
cold  eyes  guarded  his  mind  from  you,  and  his  dark  beard 
hid  his  mouth." 

"  You  do  know  it  by  heart ! "  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  Of  course  I  know  it  by  heart.  It  was  the  first 
clue.  Can  anybody  read  those  lines  without  rec- 
ognizing him?  " 

The  Baxter  girl  persisted  — 

"  But  I  don't  see  it.  Oh,  of  course  it  is  like 
him  —  but  because  she  borrowed  his  face,  the 
story  needn't  be  about  him.  Why  couldn't  she 
just  imagine  the  story?  If  she  was  a  genius?  " 

"  That  remains  the  point,"  said  Mr.  Flood. 

"  She  was,"  insisted  Anita  stubbornly. 

Miss  Howe  smiled  and  said  nothing. 

He  continued  — 

"  The  mere  fact  that  she  was  a  genius  would 
prevent  such  a  descent  into  milk  and  sugar,  un- 
less she  were  money-making  or  love-sick." 

The  blonde  lady  spoke  — 

"  Just  so !  Love-sick  —  sick  of  love  —  savage 
with  love  —  savaging  her  holy  of  holies.  A  par- 
ody. Lila's  right." 

But  Miss  Howe  shook  her  head. 
129 


LEGEND 

"  No,  no.  I  didn't  mean  that  sort  of  parody. 
Madala  may  have  had  her  emotions,  but  she'd  al- 
ways be  good-tempered  about  them.  She's  laugh- 
ing at  herself  in  The  Resting-place  as  well  as  at 
us." 

"  But  why  do  you  cavil  at  it  so  ? "  said  the 
Baxter  girl  slowly. 

"  Only  at  its  plain  meaning.  Grant  the  parody 
and " 

"But  why  can't  you  just  read  it  as  it  stands? 
Why  do  you  say  sentimental?  I  —  I  liked  it." 

Anita   took   the  book   from   her  hand. 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  anybody  can  write  this 
sort  of  thing.  Where's  the  passage  the  ladies' 
papers  rave  about,  where  they  have  a  day  on  the 
river  together  ?  "  She  whipped  over  the  pages 
while  I  said  to  the  Baxter  girl  — 

"What  is  it?  What's  it  about?  What's  the 
plot?" 

"  Oh,  there  isn't  any.  That's  what  they  com- 
plain of.  It's  just  a  little  artist's  model  who  sits 
to  an  elderly,  broken-down  dreamer,  and  thinks 
him  a  god.  The  duke  and  door-mat  touch.  It's 
just  how  two  people  fall  in  love  and  find  it  out. 
It's  as  simple  as  A,  B,  C.  But  people  ate  it  when 
it  came  out." 

"  Treacle,  I  tell  you,"  insisted  Mr.  Flood. 

Anita  overheard  him. 

"Exactly!     Listen  to  this  — 
130 


LEGEND 

.  .  .  and  they  landed  at  last  in  a  meadow  of  brilliant, 
brook-fed  grass. 

She  had  no  words  in  which  to  say  a  thousand  times 
'How  beautiful!'  Words?  She  had  never  known  a  coun- 
try June.  She  had  never  seen  whole  hedges  clotted  with 
bloom,  she  had  never  in  all  her  life  breathed  the  perfume 
of  the  may  or  heard  a  lark's  ecstasy.  She  had  never  —  and 
to  her  simplicity  there  was  no  break  in  the  chain  of  thought 
—  she  had  never  before  been  alone  with  him,  unpaid,  not 
his  servant  but  his  equal  and  companion.  How  should  she 
have  words? 

She  sat  in  the  grass  with  the  tall  ox-eyes  nodding  at  her 
elbow  and  looked  at  him  from  under  her  hat  with  a  little 
eased  sigh.  This,  after  the  dust  of  the  journey,  of  the  day, 
of  her  life,  was  bliss.  She  prepared  herself  for  this  bliss, 
deliberately,  as  she  did  everything.  She  was  too  poor  and 
too  hungry  to  be  wasteful  of  her  happiness:  she  must  have 
every  crumb.  Therefore  she  had  looked  first  at  herself, 
critically,  with  her  trained  eye,  fingering  the  frill  of  her 
blouse,  flinging  a  scatter  of  skirt  across  her  dusty  city  feet, 
lest  her  poverty  should  jar  his  thoughts  of  her. 

Then  she  looked  at  him.  She  saw  him  for  a  moment  with 
undazzled  eyes,  the  blue  sky  enriched  with  clouds  behind 
him.  She  was  saying  to  herself  — '  I'm  not  a  fool.  I  can  see 
straight.  I  know  what  he  is.  He's  just  an  ordinary  man 
in  a  hot,  black  suit.  He  stoops,  I  suppose.  He's  worn  out 
with  work.  He'll  never  be  young  again.  And  there's  noth- 
ing particular  about  him.  Then  what  makes  me  like  him? 
But  I  do.  I  do.  He  has  only  to  turn  and  smile  at 
me ' 

Then  he  turned  and  smiled  at  her,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  glamour  of  the  gilded  day  passed  over  and  into 
him  as  he  smiled,  glorifying  him  so  that  she  caught  her 
breath  at  his  beauty.  She  knew  her  happiness.  She  knew 
herself  and  him.  He  was  the  sum  of  the  blue  sky  and 
131 


LEGEND 

green,  green  grass,  and  the  shining  waters  and  the  flowers 
with  their  sweet  smell,  and  the  singing  birds  and  the  hum 
of  the  little  things  of  the  air.  All  beauty  was  summed  up 
in  him:  he  was  food  to  her  and  sunshine  and  music:  he  was 
her  absolute  good:  and  she  thought  that  someone  ought  to 
see  that  his  socks  were  mended  properly,  for  there  was  a 
great  ladder  down  one  ankle,  darned  with  wrong-coloured 
wool. 

"Well?"     She  shut  the  book. 

"  I  like  it,"  said  the  Baxter  girl  stubbornly. 

Mr.  Flood  twisted  uneasily  in  his  seat. 

"  Oh,  pretty,  of  course.  Of  course  it's  pleas- 
ant enough  in  a  way.  But  Madala  oughtn't  to  be 
pretty.  Think  of  the  stuff  she  can  do." 

"  But  can't  you  see,"  Miss  Howe  broke  in,  "  how 
it  parodies  the  slush  and  sugar  school?  " 

Anita  shook  her  head. 

"  She  used  another  manner  when  she  was 
ironical.  I  wish  you  were  right.  Oh,  you  may  be 
—  I  must  consider  —  but  I'm  afraid  that  she  is  in 
earnest.  That  phrase  now  — '  The  green,  green 
grass,'  (why  double  the  adjective?)  '  the  shining 
waters,  the  singing  birds  ' —  pitiful !  And  that 
anti-climax  — *  He  was  her  absolute  good :  and  she 
thought  that  someone  ought  to  see  that  his  socks 
were  mended  properly.'  I  ask  you  —  is  it  art?" 

"  Not  as  serious  work,  of  course,"  said  Miss 
Howe,  "  but " 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so,"  said  Anita. 

"  Well,  I  wish  I  could  do  it,"  said  the  Baxter 
girl.     "  What  do  you  say,  Jenny?  " 
132 


LEGEND 

But  it  had  brought  back  the  country  to  me.  It 
had  brought  back  home.  I  hadn't  anything  to  say 
to  them. 

"  And  she  wouldn't  discuss  it,  you  know.  She 
came  in  after  supper  that  night,  just  as  I  was 
reading  the  last  chapter.  It  had  only  been  out  a 
day.  There  she  sat,  where  you  are  now,  Lila, 
smiling,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  her  eyes 
fixed  on  her  hands,  waiting  for  me  to  finish." 

"  Oh  — "  Miss  Howe  gave  a  little  gushing 
scream,  "  that  reminds  me  —  d'you  know,  Anita, 
somebody  actually  told  me  that  nobody  had  seen 
The  Resting-place  before  it  was  published,  not 
even  you.  I  was  amused.  I  denied  it,  of  course." 

"  Why?  "  said  Anita  coldly. 

Miss  Howe  screamed  again. 

"Then  you  didn't?     Oh,  my  dear?" 

"  Emancipation  with  a  vengeance,"  said  Mr. 
Flood. 

"  It  had  to  come,  Anita,"  said  Miss  Howe  with 
deadly  sympathy. 

"  It  was  not  that.  It  was  only  —  she  was 
so  extraordinarily  sensitive  about  the  Resting- 
place —  unlike  herself  altogether.  I  think,  I've 
always  thought  that  she  herself  knew  how  un- 
worthy it  was  of  her.  She  —  what's  the  use  of  dis- 
guising it?  —  she,  at  least,  had  a  value  for  my 
judgment,"  her  eyes,  wandering  past  Miss  Howe, 
brooded  upon  the  Baxter  girl,  "  and  she  knew  what 
my  judgment  would  be.  She  owned  it.  She  an- 
133 


LEGEND 

ticipated  it.  I  had  shut  the  book,  you  know, 
quietly.  She  sat  so  still  that  I  thought  she  was 
asleep.  She  had  had  one  of  those  insane  morn- 
ings   " 

"  Of  course.  She  used  to  take  a  crowd  of  chil- 
dren into  the  country,  didn't  she?  " 

"Once  a  week.     Slum  children." 

"  I  know.  '  To  eat  buttercups,'  she  told  me," 
i  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  It  was  ridiculous,  you  know.  She  couldn't 
afford  it.  Look  at  the  way  she  lived!  I  always 
said  to  her,  '  If  you  can  afford  mad  extravagances 
of  that  sort,  you  can  afford  a  decent  flat  in  a 
decent  neighbourhood  ' " 

"  Oh,  but  I  loved  those  rooms,"  said  the  Baxter 
girl,  "  with  the  Spanish  leather  screen  round  the 
wash-hand-stand." 

Anita  glanced  behind  her. 

"  Ah,  you've  noticed  ?  I  happened  to  admire  it 
one  day  and  —  you  know  what  she  is  — *  Would 
you  like  it?  Why,  of  course,  it  would  just  suit 
the  rest  of  your  things.  Oh,  you  must  have  it. 
I'd  like  you  to.  It's  far  too  big  for  this  room.' 

'  Oh,'  I  said,  '  if  you  want  it  housed '  So 

that's  how  it  comes  to  be  here.  One  couldn't  hurt 
her  feelings.  And  you  know,  it  was  quite  un- 
suitable to  lodging-house  furniture." 

Miss  Howe  laughed. 

"  It  disguised  the  wash-hand-stand.  That  was 
all  Madala  cared.  Only  then  she  always  took 
134 


LEGEND 

you  round  to  show  you  how  beautifully  it  did  dis- 
guise it." 

"  Typical,"  said  Mr.  Flood.  "  Her  reserves 
were  topsy-turvy." 

"  But  she  had  her  reserves,"  said  Miss  Howe 
quickly. 

"  I  doubt  that,"  he  answered  her. 

"  Oh,  but  she  had."  Anita  recovered  her  place 
in  the  talk.  "  Curious  reserves.  You  know  how 
she  came  to  me  over  Eden  Walls  and  Ploughed 
Fields.  I  saw  every  chapter.  But  as  I  was  tell- 
ing you,  she  wouldn't  hear  a  criticism  of  The  Rest- 
ing-place. That  evening  she  pounced  on  me.  She 
was  as  quick  as  light.  She  said  — *  You  don't  like 
it!  I  knew  you  wouldn't!  Never  mind,  Anita. 
Forgot  it!  Put  it  in  the  fire!  You  like  me. 
What  do  the  books  matter?  '  She'd  been  watch- 
ing me  all  the  time." 

"  She  had  eyes  in  the,  back  of  her  head,"  said 
Miss  Howe. 

"  Kind  eyes,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  And  I  assure  you  she  wouldn't  have  said  an- 
other word  on  the  subject  if  I  hadn't  insisted.  I 
told  her  not  to  be  ridiculous.  How  could  I  help 
being  disappointed?  How  could  I  separate  her 
from  her  work?  I  was  disappointed,  bitterly.  I 
made  it  clear.  I  said  to  her — '  Well,  Madala,  all 
I  can  say  is  that  if  your  future  output  is  to  be 
on  a  level  with  this  —  this  pot-boiler 

"  It's  not  a  pot-boiler,"  said  the  Baxter  girl 
135 


LEGEND 

loudly  and  quite  rudely.  "  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  it  is,  but  it's  not  a  pot-boiler." 

Anita  stared  her  down. 

"  ' —  pot-boiler,'  I  said,  '  then  —  I  wash  my 
hands  of  you.'  I  wanted  to  rouse  her.  I  couldn't 
understand  her." 

"Well?  "said  Miss  Howe. 

They  all  laughed. 

"  Oh,  you  can  guess."  Anita  was  petulant,  but 
she,  too,  laughed  a  little.  "  You  know  her  way. 
She  just  sat  smiling  and  twisting  a  ring  that  she 
wore  and  looking  like  a  scolded  child." 

"But  what  did  she  say?  "  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  Nothing  to  the  point.  *  Oh,'  she  said,  '  but, 
Anita,  if  I'd  never  written  anything,  wouldn't 
you  be  just  as  fond  of  me?  '  Such  a  silly  thing 
to  say !  She  was  distressing  at  times.  She  em- 
barrassed me.  Fond  of  her !  She  knew  my  in- 
terests were  intellectual.  Fond  of  her!  For  a 
woman  of  her  brains  her  standard  of  values  was 
childish." 

"  But  you  were  fond  of  her,  you  know,"  said 
Miss  Howe. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that  —  there  was  something  about 

her  —  she  had  a  certain  way After  all, 

if  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  be  demonstrative,  it  was 
easier  to  acquiesce.  But  she  made  a  fetish  of  such 
things.  I  was  only  trying  to  explain  to  her,  as  I 
tell  you,  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  separate 
136 


LEGEND 

creator  and  creatures,  and  that  to  me  she  was 
Eden  Walls  and  Ploughed  Fields,  and  if  you  be- 
lieve me,  she  was  upon  me  like  a  whirlwind,  shak- 
ing me  by  the  shoulders,  and  crying  out  — *  No, 
no,  stop !  You're  to  stop !  It's  me  you  like,  not 
the  books.  I  hate  them.  I  hate  all  that.  I  shall 
get  away  from  all  that  one  day.'  And  I  said  — 
'  I  don't  wonder  you're  ashamed  of  The  Resting- 
place.  I  advise  you  to  get  to  work  at  once  on 
your  new  book.  You'll  find  that  if  you  pull  your- 
self together '  And  all  she  said  was  — *  Nita ! 

Nita !  Don't!  '  And  she  looked  at  me  in  such 
a  curious  way " 

"  How  ?  "  somebody  said. 

"  I  don't  know  —  laughing  —  despairing. 
She'd  no  right  to  look  at  me  like  that.  It  was  I 
who  was  in  despair." 

"  I'd  like  to  have  seen  you  two,"  said  Miss 
Howe. 

"I  didn't  know  what  had  got  into  her.  Of 
course  I  blame  myself.  I  ought  to  have  followed 
it  out.  I  might  have  prevented  things.  But  I 
was  annoyed  and  she  saw  it,  and  she " 

Miss  Howe  twinkled. 

"  She  wouldn't  let  you  be  annoyed  with  her 
long.  What  did  she  do  with  you,  Anita?  " 

"She?  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  We 
changed  the  subject.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact  I 
was  much  occupied  at  the  time  with  the  Anthol- 
137 


LEGEND 

ogy"  She  paused.  "  She  had  excellent  taste," 
said  Anita  regretfully.  "  Naturally  I  reserved  to 
myself  the  final  decision,  but " 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Flood. 

"  Be  quiet,  Jasper."  The  blonde  lady's  dra- 
peries dusted  his  shoulder  intimately. 

"  She'd  brought  me  a  delicious  thing  of  Lady 
Nairn's,  I  remember,  that  I'd  overlooked.  And 
from  talking  of  the  Anthology  we  came,  somehow, 
to  talking  about  me.  Yes  — "  Anita  gave  an 
embarrassed  half  laugh  — "  She  began  to  talk  to 
me,  turning  the  tables  as  it  were  —  about  myself. 
She's  never,  in  all  the  years  I'd  known  her,  taken 
such  a  tone.  Astonishing !  As  if  —  as  if  I  were 
the  younger."  She  stared  at  them,  as  one  com- 
bating an  unuttered  criticism.  "I  —  liked  it," 
said  Anita  defiantly.  "  There  was  nothing  im- 
pertinent. It  was  heartening.  She  made  me  feel 
that  one  person  in  the  world,  at  least,  knew  me 
—  knew  my  work.  I  realized,  suddenly,  that  while 
I  had  been  studying  her,  she  must  have  been 
studying  me,  that  she  understood  my  capacities, 
my  limitations,  my  possibilities,  almost  as  well  as 
I  did  myself .  The  relief  of  it  —  indescribable ! 
She  was  extraordinarily  plain-spoken.  As  a  rule, 
you  know,  I  thought  her  manner " 

"Insincere?"  said  the  Baxter  girl.  "Yes, 
I've  heard  people  say  that." 

"  It  had  that  effect.  It  didn't  seem  possible 
that  she  could  like  everyone  as  much  as  she  made 
138 


LEGEND 

them  think  she  did.     But  with  me,  at  least,  she  was 
always  frankness  itself.     She  believes,  you  know, 

—  she  believed,  that  is,  that  all  my  work  so  far, 
even  the  Anthology  and  the  Famous  Women  series, 
not  to  mention  the  lighter  work,  is  still  prelimi- 
nary :  that  my "  she  hesitated  — "  my  master- 
piece, she  called  it,  was  still  to  come.     She  said 
that,  though  she  appreciated  all  my  work,  I  hadn't 
*  found  myself.'     Yes  !  from  that  child  to  me  it  was 
amusing.     But  right,  you  know.     She  said  that 
my  line,  whether  I  dealt  with  a  period  or  a  per- 
son, would  always  be  critical,  but  that  I'd  never 
had  a  big  success  because  so  far  I'd  been  merely 
critical:  that  I'd  never  become  identified  with  my 
subject:    that    I'd   always    remained   aloof  —  in- 
human.    Yes,   she   said  that.     A   curious   theory 

—  but  it  interested  me.     But  she  said  that  it  was 
only  the  real  theme  I  needed,  the  engrossing  sub- 
ject.    She  said  that  my  chance  would  come:  that 
4  she  felt  it  in  her  bones.'     I  can  hear  her  voice  now 
— '  Don't  you  worry,  Nita !     It'll  come  to  you  one 
day.     A  big  thing.     Biography,  I  shouldn't  won- 
der.    And  I  shall  sit  and  say  —  I  told  you  so  — 
I  told  you  so ! '     Yes,  she  talked  like  that.     Oh, 
it's  nothing  when  I  repeat  it,  but  if  you  knew 
how  it  seemed  to  pour  new  life  into  me.     It  was 
the  belief  in  her  voice !  " 

"  She  always  believed  in  you,"  said  Miss  Howe 
with     a     certain     harshness.     "  Insincere !     You 
should    have    heard    her    talk    of    your    Famous 
139 


LEGEND 

Women!"     And    then— "Yes.     She   believed   in 
you  right  enough." 

"  More  than  I  did  in  her  that  night.  I  couldn't 
forget  The  Resting-place.  It  lay  on  the  table, 
and  every  now  and  then,  when  I  felt  most  com- 
fort in  her,  my  eyes  would  fall  on  it,  and  it  would 
jar  me.  She  felt  it  too.  When  I  saw  her  off  at 
last  —  it  had  grown  very  late  —  she  stopped  at 
the  gate  and  turned  and  came  running  back.  I 
thought  that  she  had  forgotten  her  handbag.  She 
nearly  always  forgot  her  handbag.  But  no,  it 
was  The  Resting-place  that  was  on  her  mind. 
It  was  — *  Nita !  try  it  again.  Maybe  you'd  like 
it  better.'  And  then — 'Nita!  I  enjoyed  writ- 
ing it  so.'  '  That's  something,  at  any  rate,'  I  said, 
not  wanting,  you  know,  to  be  unkind.  Then  she 
said  — '  I  wish  you  liked  it.  Because,  you  know, 
Nita  — '  and  stopped  as  if  she  wanted  to  tell  me 
something  and  couldn't  make  up  her  mind.  '  Well, 
what?'  I  said.  It  was  cold  on  the  steps.  She 
hesitated.  She  looked  at  me.  For  an  instant  I 
had  an  absurd  impression  that  she  was  going  to 
cry.  Then  she  kissed  me.  She'd  kissed  me  good- 
night once  already,  though,  you  know,  we  never 
did  as  a  rule.  And  then,  off  she  went  without  an- 
other word.  I  was  quite  bewildered  by  her.  I 
nearly  called  her  back;  but  it  was  one  of  those 
deep  dark  blue  nights :  it  seemed  to  swallow  her 
up  at  once.  But  I  heard  her  footsteps  for  a  long 
while  after  —  dragging  steps,  as  if  she  were  tired. 
140 


LEGEND 

I  wasn't.  It  was  as  if  she  had  put  something  into 
me.  I  went  back  into  the  house  and  I  worked 
till  daylight.  And  all  the  next  day  I  worked  — 
worked  well.  I  felt,  I  remember,  so  hopeful,  so 
full  of  power.  By  the  evening  I  had  quite  a  mass 
of  material  to  show  her,  if  she  came.  I  half  ex- 
pected her  to  come.  But  instead  — "  she  fumbled 
among  her  papers  — "  I  got  this." 

It  was  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  a  sheet  that  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  crushed  into  a  ball  and  then 
smoothed  out  again  for  careful  folding.  Anita's 
fingers  were  still  ironing  out  the  crinkled  edge  while 
she  read  it  aloud. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I  tried  to  tell  you  yester- 
day, but  somehow  I  couldn't.  It  oughtn't  to  be  difficult,  yet 
all  this  afternoon  I've  been  writing  to  you  in  an  exercise 
book,  and  crossing  out,  and  re-phrasing,  and  putting  in 
again  as  carefully  and  dissatisfiedly  as  if  it  were  Opus  4. 
I  wish  it  were,  because  then  you'd  be  very  much  pleased  with 
Madala  Grey  and  forget  the  dreadful  shock  of  Opus  3!  I 
was  always  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  it,  and  sorry,  because 
I  like  it  more  than  all  my  other  work  put  together.  Have 
you  never  even  begun  to  guess  why?  But  how  should  you, 
when  I  didn't  know  myself  until  after  it  was  finished? 
Coming  events,  I  suppose.  It's  quite  true  —  one  isn't  over- 
taken by  fate:  one  prepares  one's  own  fate:  one  carries  it 
about  inside  one,  like  a  child.  I  hear  you  say— 'Can't 
you  come  to  the  point?'  No,  I  can't.  Partly  because  I'm 
afraid  of  what  you'll  say,  because  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  dis- 
appointed, and  partly,  selfishly,  because  there  is  a  queer 
pleasure  in  beating  about  the  bush  that  bears  my  flower. 
It's  too  beautiful  to  pick  straight  away  in  one  rough  snatch 
141 


LEGEND 

of  a  sentence.  Am  I  selfish?  You've  been  so  kind  to  me. 
I  know  you  will  be  sorry  and  that  troubles  me.  And  yet 
—  Anita,  I  am  going  to  be  married.  You  met  him  once  in 
the  churchyard  at  home,  do  you  remember?  I've  seen  him 
now  and  then  when  I  took  the  children  down  there  in  the 
summer.  He 

There's  something  scratched  out  here,"  said  Anita. 

"  I  think  we  shall  be  happy.  When  you  get  accustomed  to 
the  idea  I  hope  you  will  like  him." 

She  paused. 

"  Now  what  do  you  make  of  that?  "  said  Anita. 

"  It  explains  the  expeditions  with  the  children," 
said  Mr.  Flood.  "  They  were  always  too  — 
philanthropic,  to  be  quite  —  eh?  " 

"  Oh,  but  she  began  those  outings  ages  ago," 
said  Miss  Howe  quickly. 

"  Besides,"  said  Anita,  "  she  didn't  go  every 
week  that  summer.  That's  the  point.  She  told 
me  herself  that  she  was  so  busy  that  she  had  to 
get  help  —  one  of  those  mission  women.  Now 
why  was  she  so  busy?  " 

"  Diversions  in  the  country  and  attractions  in 
town?  "  said  Mr.  Flood.  "  It  all  takes  time." 

Anita  nodded. 

"  You  think  that  ?  So  do  I.  And  attractions 
in  town !  Exactly !  At  any  rate  I  shall  make 
that  the  big  chapter,  the  convincing  chapter,  of  the 
Life.  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  prove  that  that 
summer  was  the  climax  of  her  affairs.  I  grant 
you  that  she  met  Carey  that  summer,  but  as  she 
142 


LEGEND 

says  herself,  a  few  times  only.  We  must  look 
nearer  home  than  Carey." 

"  Oh,  but  there's  such  a  thing  as  love  at  first 
sight,"  protested  the  Baxter  girl,  and  Anita  dealt 
with  her  in  swift  parenthesis  — 

"  I  was  there  when  they  first  met.     Shouldn't  I 

have    realized ?  "     And    then,    continuing  — 

"  Well,  reckon  up  my  points.  To  begin  with  — 
the  difference  in  her  that  we  all  noticed,  the  rest- 
lessness, the  —  unhappiness  one  might  almost  say, 
the  aloofness  —  oh,  don't  you  know  what  I  mean? 
as  if  she  didn't  belong  to  us  any  more." 

"As  if  she  didn't  belong  to  herself  any  more." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  even  more  what  I  mean.  Then 
comes  the  fact  that  we  saw  so  little  of  her.  What 
did  she  do  with  her  time?  Writing  The  Resting- 
place,  was  her  explanation,  but  —  is  that  gospel? 
Do  you  really  believe  that  she  sat  at  home  writing 
and  dreaming  all  those  long  summer  days  and 
nights,  except  when  she  was  —  eating  buttercups 
—  with  Carey  and  her  chapertons  ?  And  then 
comes  The  Resting-place  with  its  appalling  fall- 
ing-off,  and  following  on  that,  this  letter,  this 
sudden  engagement.  Now  doesn't  it  look  —  I  ask 
you,  doesn't  it  look  as  if  something  had  been  go- 
ing on  behind  all  our  backs  and  had  at  last  come 
to  a  head  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  she  was  in  love  is  certain,"  said  Mr. 
Flood.  "  Was  there  ever  a  woman  of  genius  who 
wasn't?" 

143 


LEGEND 

"Exactly.  It's  a  moral  certainty.  And  this 
letter  to  me  proves  that,  whoever  it  was,  it  wasn't 
Carey.  *  I  think  we  shall  be  happy.'  *  I  hope 
you  will  like  him.'  Is  that  the  way  a  woman  writes 
of  her  first  love  or  her  first  lover?  " 

"Oh,  but  that  sentence  just  before "  the 

Baxter  girl  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  let- 
ter — "  '  The  bush  that  bears  my  flower '  " 

She  spoke  sympathetically;  but  it  jarred  me.  I 
wondered  how  I  should  feel  if  I  thought  that  the 
Baxter  girl  would  ever  read  my  letters  aloud. 

"  Ah,  that's  the  literary  touch.  Madala  could 
never  resist  embroideries.  Besides  —  she  wants 
to  confuse  me.  That  means  nothing.  But  here, 
you,  see  —  — "  she  took  the  letter  out  of  the  Bax- 
ter girl's  hand  — "  as  soon  as  she  comes  to  the 
point,  the  real  point,  the  confession,  the  apologia 
—  then  the  baldest  sentences.  Try  to  remember 
that  Madala  Grey  has  written  one  of  the  strong- 
est love  scenes  of  the  decade,  and  all  she  can  say 
of  the  man  she  is  to  marry  is  — '  I  hope  you  will 
like  him.'  " 

"  H'm !  It's  curious  !  "  Miss  Howe  was  frown- 
ing. 

"Isn't  it?  And  then  you  know,  the  whole 
manner  of  the  engagement  was  so  unlike  her  usual 
triumphant  way.  She  always  swept  one  along, 
didn't  she?  But  in  the  matter  of  the  marriage 
she  seems,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  to  have  been 
perfectly  passive.  She  left  everything  to  the  man 
144- 


LEGEND 

—  arrangements  —  furniture  —  I  imagine  she 
even  bought  her  clothes  to  please  him.  And  the 
wedding  itself  —  no  reception,  no  presents,  no  no- 
tice to  anyone,  so  sudden,  so  private.  Not  a 
word  even  to  her  oldest  friends " 

Great-aunt  stirred  in  her  corner. 

" —  there  was  something  so  furtive  about  it  all : 
as  if  she  were  running  away  from  something." 

Miss  Howe  sat  up. 

"  D'you  mean  ?  —  what  do  you  mean,  Anita  ? 
Are  you  hinting ?" 

Anita  looked  at  her  in  a  puzzled  way  that  re- 
lieved me,  I  hardly  knew  why. 

"  Why,  only  that  it  carries  out  my  theory  — 
of  Carey  as  a  refuge." 

"From  what?" 

"  Life  —  frustration  —  what  did  you  think  I 
meant?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Nothing.  It  was  my  evil 
mind,  I  suppose."  She  flushed. 

"  How  she  harps  on  the  child !  "  the  Baxter  girl 
carried  it  on. 

"  That's  a  mere  simile "  said  Miss  Howe 

swiftly. 

"  But  a  queer  simile !  " 

"  The  marriage  was  sudden,"  said  Mr.  Flood 
from  the  floor  in  his  silky  voice.  "  Anita's  theory 
has  its  points." 

"A  seven  months'  child!"  It  was  the  first 
word  that  the  blonde  lady  had  said  for  some  time. 
145 


LEGEND 

There  was  something  sluggishly  cold,  slimily  cold, 
in  her  abstracted  voice. 

Anita  started. 

"  I  never  suggested  that,"  she  said  sharply. 
But  there  was  a  quiver  in  her  voice  that  was  more 
excitement  than  anger. 

"  My  dear  lady,  nobody  suggests  anything.  We 
are  only  remarking  that  the  union  of  our  Madala 
and  her  *  refuge  ' —  the  soubriquet  is  yours,  by  the 
way  —  was  as  surprising  as  it  was  —  er  —  sud- 
den. That  was  your  idea?  "  He  turned  to  the 
shadows  and  from  them  the  blonde  lady  nodded, 
smiling. 

At  the  time,  you  know,  I  didn't  understand 
them.  They  were  so  quick  and  allusive.  They 
said  more  in  jerks  and  nods  and  pauses  than  in 
actual  speech.  But  I  saw  the  smile  on  that 
woman's  face,  and  heard  the  way  he  said  '  our 
Madala.'  I  felt  myself  growing  angry  and  panic- 
stricken,  and  I  was  quite  helpless.  I  just  went 
across  the  room  to  that  big  man  sitting  dully  in 
his  corner,  in  his  dream,  and  I  caught  his  arm  and 
cried  to  him  under  my  breath  — 

"  You  must  come.  You  must  come  and  stop 
them.  They're  talking  about  her.  Come  quickly. 
They  —  they're  saying  beastly  things." 

He  gave  me  one  look.     Then  he  got  up  and  went 
swiftly  from  one  room  to  the  other.     But  swiftly 
as   he  moved   and   I   followed,   someone   else  was 
there  before  us  to  fight  that  battle. 
146 


LEGEND 

It  was  Great-aunt  Serle. 

She  was  a  heavy  old  woman  and  feeble.  She 
never  stirred  as  a  rule  without  a  helping  arm ;  but 
somehow  she  had  got  herself  out  of  her  seat  and 
across  the  floor  to  the  table,  and  there  she  stood, 
her  knitting  gripped  as  if  it  were  a  weapon,  the 
long  thread  of  it  stretched  and  taut  from  the  ball 
that  had  rolled  round  the  chair-leg,  her  free  hand 
and  her  tremulous  head  jerking  and  snapping  and 
poking  at  that  amazed  assembly  as  she  rated 
them  — 

"  I  won't  allow  such  talk.  Anita,  I  won't  have 
it.  If  I  let  you  bring  home  friends  —  ought  to 

know  better !  And  you "  the  blonde  lady  was 

spitted,  as  it  were,  on  that  unerring  finger, 
"  you're  a  wicked  woman.  That's  what  you  are 
—  a  wicked,  scandalous  woman.  And  you,  Anita, 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  to  let  her  talk  so 
of  my  girl.  Such  a  woman !  Paint  and  powder ! 
Envy,  hatred,  malice!  And  in  my  house  too! 
Tell  her  to  wash  her  face!"  She  glowered  at 
them. 

There  was  a  blank  pause  and  then  a  sound  some- 
where, like  the  end  of  a  spurting  giggle.  It  must 
have  been  the  Baxter  girl.  There  was  a  most 
uncomfortable  moment,  before  Anita  cried  out 
"  Mother !  "  in  a  horrified  voice,  and  Miss  Howe 
said  "  Beryl ! "  in  a  voice  not  quite  as  horri- 
fied. 

But  the  blonde  lady  sat  through  it  all  quite 
147 


LEGEND 

calmly,  smiling  and  moistening  her  lips.  At  last 
she  drawled  out  — 

"  Nita  !  Your  dear  mother's  quite  upset.  So 
sorry,  Nita !  "  Then,  a  very  little  lower,  but  we 
could  all  hear  it  — "  Poor  dear  Nita !  Quite  a 
trial  for  poor  dear  Nita !  " 

But  Anita  had  jumped  up.  She  was  very  much 
flustered  and  annoyed.  I  think,  too,  that  she  was 
startled.  I  know  that  I  was  startled.  Great- 
aunt  didn't  look  like  herself.  She  was  like  a  witch 
in  a  picture-book,  and  her  voice  had  been  quite 
strong  and  commanding. 

Anita  tried  to  quiet  her  and  get  her  away. 

"  Mother !  You  must  be  quiet !  D'you  hear 
me,  Mother?  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying. 
You've  been  up  too  long.  You're  overdone.  It's 
time  you  went  to  bed." 

She  took  her  firmly  by  the  arm.  But  Great- 
aunt  struggled  with  her. 

"  I  won't.  Leave  me  alone.  It's  your  fault, 
Anita.  You  sat  and  listened.  You  let  them  talk 
that  way  about  my  girl." 

"  Now,  Mother,  what  nonsense !  Your  girl ! 
Madala's  not  your  daughter."  And  then,  in 
apology  — "  She's  always  confusing  us.  She 
gets  these  ideas." 

"Not  mine?  Ah!  That's  all  you  know! 
'  Anita  upstairs  ?  '  That's  how  she'd  come  run- 
ning in  to  me.  '  Are  you  busy,  Mrs.  Serle?  '  Al- 
ways looked  in  to  my  room  first.  Brought  me  vio- 
148 


LEGEND 

lets.  Talked.  Told  me  all  her  troubles.  You 
never  knew.  Not  mine,  eh?  Didn't  I  see  her  mar- 
ried, my  pretty  girl?  *  Hole-and-corner  busi- 
ness!* That's  what  you  tell  them?  'Nobody 
knew.'  But  I  knew." 

Anita's  hand  dropped  from  her  mother's  arm. 
She  stared  at  her. 

"  You,  Mother?  You  there?  "  And  then,  an- 
grily, "  Oh,  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  eh?  But  it's  true,  for  all  I'm 
lumber  in  my  own  house.  I'm  to  go  to  bed  before 
the  company  comes,  before  she  comes.  Don't  she 
want  to  see  me  then?  Who  pinned  her  veil  for  her 
and  kissed  her  and  blessed  her,  and  took  her  to 
church,  and  gave  her  to  him?  Not  you,  my  daugh- 
ter. She  didn't  come  to  you  for  that."  And  then, 
with  a  slacking  and  a  wail,  "  Eh,  but  we  were  never 
to  tell !  " 

"  Mother,  you'd  better  come  to  bed.  I " 

there  was  the  faintest  suggestion  of  menace  in  her 
voice  — "  I'll  talk  to  you  tomorrow." 

The  old  woman  shrank  away. 

"  I  won't  come.  I  know.  You  want  me  out  of 
the  way.  You  don't  want  me  to  see  her.  What 
are  you  going  to  say  about  me  ?  You'll  say  things 
to  her  about  me.  I've  heard  you." 

Quite  obviously  Anita  restrained  herself. 

"  Now,  Mother,  you  know  you  don't  mean  that." 

"  Hush !  "  Great-aunt  pulled  away  her  hand. 
"  Quiet,  child,  quiet !  Wasn't  that  the  cab?  I've 
149 


LEGEND 

listened  all  the  evening,  all  the  long  evening."  Her 
old  voice  thinned  and  sharpened  to  a  chirp. 
"  Soft,  soft,  the  wheels  go  by.  The  wheels  never 
stop.  Wait  till  the  wheels  stop.  It's  the  fog 
that's  keeping  her.  There's  fog  everywhere. 
Maybe  she's  lost  in  the  fog."  Then  she  chuckled 
to  herself.  "  Naughty  girl  to  be  so  late.  But 
she's  always  late.  Why  should  I  go  to  bed?  I've 
got  to  finish  my  knitting,  Nita.  Only  two  rows, 
Nita.  They'll  just  last  me  till  she  comes."  And 
then,  "  Anita,  she  will  come?  " 

Anita  turned  to  the  others. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed.  It's  nothing.  I'm  afraid 

she  hasn't  realized "  She  began  again  — 

"  Now,  Mother !  It's  bed-time,  Mother  dear." 

"  «  Dear  ' — '  dear  ' —  why  do  you  speak  kindly? 
Madala's  not  here  to  listen."  And  then  — "  Nita, 
Nita  child,  let  me  stay  till  she  comes." 

Anita  was  quite  patient  with  her,  and  quite  un- 
yielding. 

"  Now  listen,  Mother !  It's  no  use  waiting. 

Come  upstairs  with  me.  She  won't "  her  voice 

altered,  "  she  can't  come  tonight." 

Beside  me  Kent  Rehan  spoke  — 

"  I  can't  stand  it,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  stand  it. 
I  can't  stand  it."  He  didn't  seem  to  know  that  he 
was  speaking. 

But  Great-aunt  heard  his  voice  if  she  didn't  hear 
the  words.  She  broke  away  from  Anita  and  went 
shuffling  over  the  floor  towards  him  with  blind 
150 


LEGEND 

movements.  She  would  have  fallen  if  he  hadn't 
been  beside  her  in  an  instant,  holding  her. 

"  Kent,  d'you  hear  her?  You  know  my  daugh- 
ter. You  know  Madala  too.  You  speak  to  her! 
You  tell  her !  Madala  always  comes,  doesn't  she  ? 
Always  comes.  You  tell  her  that !  I  want  to  see 
Madala.  Very  good  to  me,  Madala.  Brought  me 
a  bunch  of  violets." 

Anita  followed. 

"  Kent,  for  goodness'  sake,  try  to  help  me. 
She'll  make  herself  ill.  I  shall  have  her  in 

bed  for  days.  Now,  Mother Now  come, 

Mother!" 

Great-aunt  clung  to  his  arm. 

"  She's  not  kind.  My  daughter's  very  hard  on 
me." 

For  the  first  time  Anita  showed  signs  of  agita- 
tion. She  was  almost  appealing. 

"Kent!  You  mustn't  believe  her.  It's  not 
fair.  You  see  my  position.  One  has  to  be  firm. 

And  you  don't  know  how  trying What  am  I 

to  do?  Shall  I  tell  her?  She's  as  obstinate  — 
I'll  never  get  her  to  bed.  Ought  I  to  tell  her? 
She'll  have  to  be  told  sooner  or  later.  She'll  have 
to  realize " 

He  said  — 

"  I'll  talk  to  her  if  you  like." 

Anita  looked  at  him  intently. 

"  It's  good  of  you.  She  has  always  listened  to 
you.  Since  you  and  I  were  children  together. 
151 


LEGEND 

Do  you  remember,  Kent?     Yes,  you  talk  to  her." 

"  What's  she  saying?  "  demanded  Great-aunt. 
Her  old  eyes  were  bright  with  suspicion.  "  Talk- 
ing you  over,  eh?  Talk  anyone  over,  my  daugh- 
ter will  —  my  clever  daughter.  So  clever.  Ma- 
dala  thinks  so  too.  '  Dripping  with  brains.' 
That's  what  Madala  said.  Made  me  laugh. 
Quite  true,  though.  Hasn't  Madala  come  yet?" 

"  Now,  look  here,  Mrs.  Serle "  he  put  his 

arm  round  her  bent  shoulders,  "  it's  very  foggy, 
you  know,  and  it's  very  late.  Nobody  could  travel 
—  nobody  could  come  tonight.  You'll  believe  us, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  Wait !  What's  that  ?  "  She  stood  a  moment, 
her  finger  raised,  listening  intently.  Then  she 
straightened  her  bowed  body  and  looked  up  at  him. 
One  so  seldom  saw  her  face  lifted,  shone  upon  by 
any  light,  that  that  alone,  I  suppose,  was  enough 
to  change  her.  For  changed  she  was  —  her  coun- 
tenance so  wise  and  beaming  that  I  hardly  knew 
her.  "  Now  I  know,"  she  said,  "  she  will  come. 
Wait  for  her,  Kent.  She  will  come.  I  —  I  hear 
her  coming.  She's  not  so  far  from  us.  She's  not 
so  far  away." 

They  stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  the 
man  and  the  old  woman.  Then  her  face  dropped 
forward  again,  downward  into  its  accustomed 
shadow,  as  he  said  to  her  — 

"  It's  too  late,  Mrs.  Serle.     She  won't  come  — 
now.     Not  now  any  more.     And  Anita  thinks  — 
152 


LEGEND 

truly  you're  very  tired,  aren't  you?     Now,  aren't 
you?" 

"  Very  tired,"  she  quavered. 

"  I  know  you  are.     Won't  you  let  me  help  you 
upstairs?  " 

"  And  stay  a  bit?  "  she  said,  clutching  at  him. 
"  Stay  and  talk  to  me?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  humoured  her. 

"  About  Madala?  " 

He  was  very  white. 

"  About  Madala.     Anita,  take  her  other  arm. 
That's  the  way." 

They  helped  her  out  of  the  room,  and  we  heard 
their  slow  progress  up  the  stairs. 

It  was  the  blonde  lady  who  broke  the  silence 
with  her  tinkling  laugh  — 

"  Poor  dear  Nita !  " 

"  Kent's  a  good  sort,"  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  What's  Hecuba  to  him  now?  "     Mr.  Flood's 
smile  glinted  from  one  to  another. 

"  A    very    old    friend,"    said   the    blonde   lady. 
"  You  heard  what  dear  Nita  said  to  him." 

"'Children   together!'     I   didn't  know  that." 
He  was  still  smiling. 

"  And  they  always  kept  in  touch,"  put  in  Miss 
Howe. 

"  Trust  Nita  for  that,"  said  the  blonde  lady. 

Miss  Howe  nodded. 

"  She  told  me  once  that  from  the  first  she  real- 
ized that  he  would  do  big  things." 
153 


LEGEND 

"  So  Nita  kept  in  touch ! "  Mr.  Flood  laughed 
outright. 

"But  it's  only  the  last  few  years  that  she's 
been  able  to  produce  him  at  will,  like  a  conjuror's 
rabbit." 

"  Since  Madala's  advent,  you  mean,"  said  the 
blonde  lady. 

"  '  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlour  ?  '  said  Anita 
to  the  fly.  '  It's  a  literary  parlour '  "  mur- 
mured Mr.  Flood.  And  then  — "  No.  Kent's  not 
likely  to  have  walked  in  without  a  honey-pot  in  the 
parlour.  Madala  must  have  been  useful." 

"  That's  what  Miss  Serle  will  never  forgive  her, 
7  think,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  What?  " 

"  That  she  was  useful.  Do  you  believe  in  the 
other  man  ?  " 

"  The  unknown  influence?  "  His  eyes  narrowed. 
"H'm!" 

"  And  yet  of  course  there's  been  someone." 
The  Baxter  girl  never  quite  deserted  Anita,  even 
in  her  absence. 

The  blonde  lady  nodded. 

"  Of  course.  Nita's  always  nearly  right.  The 
influence  —  the  adventures  —  the  mariage  de  con- 
venance  —  she's  got  it  all  so  pat  —  and  the  man 
too.  She  knows  well  enough ;  yet  she  fights  against 
it.  She  won't  have  it.  I  wonder  why.  '  Very  old 
friends  '  I  suppose."  She  laughed  again.  "  But 
of  course  it  was  Kent.  Can't  you  see  that's  why 
154 


LEGEND 

Nita  hates  her?  What  a  Life  it  will  be!  I  just 
long  for  it  to  come  out.  Nita's  a  comedy." 

"  A  tragedy." 

"  Nita  ?     My  dear  Lila !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I'm  only  quoting,"  said  Miss  Howe.  And 
then  — "  But  when  she  isn't  actually  annoying  me 
I  think  I  agree." 

"  Who  said  it?  "  said  the  Baxter  girl  inquisi- 
tively. 

"  Madala.  It's  the  only  thing  I've  ever  heard 
her  say  of  Anita.  She  never  discussed  Anita. 
Now  of  Kent  she  would  talk  by  the  hour.  Which 
proves  to  me,  you  know,  that  the  affair  with  him 
didn't  go  very  deep.  Nita  quoted  that  description 
of  Kent  just  now,  but  only  so  far  as  it  served  her. 
She  carefully  forgot  how  it  goes  on.  Here,  where 
is  it?  Ah 

He  brooded  like  a  lover  over  his  colour-box,  and  as  she 
watched  him  her  thoughts  flew  to  her  own  small  brothers 
at  home.  Geoff  with  his  steam-engine,  Jimmy  sorting 
stamps  —  there,  there  was  to  be  found  the  same  ruthless- 
ness  of  absorption,  achieving  dignity  by  its  sheer  intensity. 
She  smiled  over  him  and  them. 

"  Keep  your  face  still,"  he  ordered. 

She  obeyed  instantly,  flushing;  and  as  she  did  so  she 
thought  to  herself  — '  I  could  be  afraid  of  that  man,'  but  a 
moment  afterwards — 'He  is  like  a  small  boy.' 

"  Now  that  may  be  Kent  —  oh,  it  is  Kent,  of  course 
—  but  it's  not  Madala's  attitude  to  Kent.     She 
was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  him." 
155 


LEGEND 

"  Ah,  but  that  later  passage,  the  country  pas- 
sage —  that's  pure  Madala." 

"  Yes.  Just  where  it  ceases  to  be  Kent  — *  He 
stoops,  I  suppose.  He's  worn  out  with  work. 
He's  quite  ordinary.'  That's  not  Kent." 

"  No,  that's  true.  One  doesn't  know  where  to 
have  her.  She  muddles  her  trail,"  said  Mr.  Flood. 

"  I  call  it  weakness  of  touch  not  to  let  you  know 
whom  she  drew  from,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 

"Ah,  but  she  always  insisted  that  she  didn't 
draw  portraits." 

"  Of  course.  They  always  do.  If  one  believed 
them  one  would  never  get  behind  the  scenes,  and 
if  one  can't  get  behind  the  scenes  one  might  as 
well  be  mere  public  and  read  for  the  story,"  said 
the  Baxter  girl  indignantly. 

"  Well,  you  know,"  Miss  Howe  sat  turning  over 
the  pages  of  The  Resting-place  with  careful,  al- 
most with  caressing  fingers,  "  I  don't  believe  she 
meant  to  draw  portraits.  She  had  queer,  old-fash- 
ioned notions.  I  think  she  would  have  thought  it 
—  treacherous." 

"  The  portraits  are  there  though,  if  you  look 
close  enough,"  insisted  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  Yes,  but  they  happened  in  spite  of  her.  Any- 
one she  was  fond  of  she  took  into  her,  in  a  sense: 
and  when  her  gift  descended  upon  her  and  de- 
manded expression,  then,  all  unconsciously,  she  ex- 
pressed them  too.  But  gilded !  We  find  ourselves 
in  her  books,  and  we  never  knew  before  how  lovable 
156 


LEGEND 

we  are.  You're  right,  Blanche,  she  liked  whatever 
she  looked  on.  And  you're  right  too,  Jasper, 
Grande  amoureuse,  she  was  that.  That  capacity 
for  loving  made  her  what  she  was.  The  technical 
facility  was  her  talent  and  her  luck ;  but  it  was  her 
own  personality  that  turned  it  into  genius." 

"  Then  after  all  you  admit  the  genius,"  said  the 
Baxter  girl  triumphantly. 

"  No.  No.  No.  My  judgment  says  no. 
When  I  read  her  books  in  cold  blood  —  no.  But 
we've  been  talking  about  her.  It's  as  if  she  were 
with  us,  and  when  she's  with  us  my  judgment  goes  ! 
That's  the  secret  of  Madala  Grey.  She  does  what 
she  likes  with  us.  But  the  next  generation,  the 
people  who  don't  know  her,  whether  they'll  find  in 
her  books  what  we  do,  is  doubtful.  Who  wants  a 
dried  rose?  " 

"Yes,  but  Miss  Serle  — in  the  Life?  Won't 
she  —  preserve  her  ?  " 

"  Preserve  —  exactly !  But  not  revive.  No, 
I'd  sooner  pin  my  faith  to  The  Spring  Song,  al- 
though I  haven't  seen  it.  It  ought  to  be  a  revela- 
tion. She  eluded  Nita,  impishly.  I've  seen  her 
do  it.  But  there's  no  doubt  that  she  gave  Kent 
his  chance." 

"  Every  chance.     She'd  deny  it,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  she  did."     Miss  Howe  laughed.     "  Have 

you  ever  seen  her  in  a  temper?     I  have.     I  was  a 

fool.     I  told  her  one  day  (you  know  how  things 

come  up)  just  something  of  the  gossip  about  Kent 

157 


LEGEND 

and  her.  I  thought  it  only  kind.  But  you  should 
have  heard  her.  She  was  as  healthily  furious  as  a 
schoolgirl.  That  was  so  comfortable  about  Ma- 
dala.  She  hadn't  that  terrible  aloofness  of  really 
big  people.  She  didn't  withdraw  into  dignity. 
She  just  stormed."  Miss  Howe  laughed  again. 
"  I  can  see  her  now,  raging  up  and  down  the  room 

— 'Do   you    mean   to    say    that    people ?     I 

never  heard  of  anything  so  monstrous  !  What  has 
it  got  to  do  with  them?  Why  can't  they  leave 
me  alone?  I've  never  done  them  any  harm.  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it,  pretending  they  liked 
me,  and  letting  me  be  friends  with  them,  and  then 
saying  hateful  things  behind  my  back.  I'll  never 
speak  to  them  again  —  never !  That  they  should 
go  about  twisting  things  —  Why  can't  they  mind 
their  own  business?  And  dragging  in  Kent  like 
that !  Oh,  it  does  make  me  so  wild ! '  'Oh,  well, 
my  dear,'  I  said  to  her,  '  when  two  people  see  as 
much  of  each  other  as  you  and  Kent  do,  there's 
bound  to  be  talk.'  At  that  she  swung  round  on 
me.  '  But  he's  my  friend?  she  said.  *  Yes,'  I 
said,  'that's  just  it.'  'But  I'm  not  expected  to 
marry  everyone  I'm  fond  of ! '  '  Are  you  fond  of 
him,  Madala?'  I  asked  her.  'Yes,'  she  said  di- 
rectly, '  I  am.  I'm  awfully  fond  of  him.  I'd  do 
anything  for  him,  bless  his  heart ! '  '  Well,'  I  said. 
*  you  needn't  be  so  upset.  That's  all  that  people 
mean.  If  you're  fond  of  him  and  he  —  he's  obvi- 
ously in  love  with  you '  But  at  that  she 

158 


LEGEND 

caught  me  up  in  her  quick  way  — *  In  love  ?  Oh, 
you  don't  understand  him.  Nobody  understands 
Kent.  He  doesn't  understand  himself.  Dear  old 
Kent ! '  Then  she  began  walking  up  and  down  the 
room  again,  but  more  quietly,  and  talking,  half  to 
herself,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  I  was  there,  justi- 
fying herself,  justifying  him.  'Dear  old  Kent! 
Poor  old  Kent !  I'm  awfully  fond  of  Kent.  So  is 
he  of  me.  But  not  in  the  right  way.  He's  got, 
when  he  happens  to  think  of  it,  a  great  romantic 
idea  of  the  woman  he  wants,  of  the  wife  he  wants ; 
but  the  truth  is,  you  know,  that  he  doesn't  want  a 
wife.  He  wants  a  mother,  and  a  sister,  and  a  —  a 
lover.  A  true  lover.  A  patienter  woman  than  I 
am.  A  woman  who'll  delight  in  him  for  his  own 
sake,  not  for  what  he  gives  her.  A  woman  who'll 
put  him  first  and  be  content  to  come  second  with 
him.  He'll  always  put  his  work  first.  He  can't 
help  it.  He's  an  artist.  Oh,  not  content.  I 
didn't  mean  that.  She  must  be  too  big  for  that  — 
big  enough  to  know  what  she  misses.  But  a  wise 
woman,  such  a  loving,  hungry  woman.  '  Half  a 
loaf,'  she'll  say  to  herself.  But  she'll  never  have  to 
let  him  hear.  He's  chivalrous.  He'd  be  horrified 
at  giving  her  half  a  loaf.  He'd  say  — "  All  or 
nothing!"  But  he  couldn't  give  her  all.  He 
couldn't  spare  it.  So  he'd  give  her  nothing  out  of 
sheer  respect  for  her.  That's  Kent.  He's  got  his 
dear  queer  theories  of  life  —  oh,  they're  all  right 
as  theories  —  but  he  fits  people  to  them,  instead 
159 


LEGEND 

of  them  to  people.  Procrustes.  He'd  torture  a 
woman  from  the  kindest  of  motives.  It's  lack  of 
imagination.  Haven't  you  noticed  ?  '  *  Consider- 
ing he's  one  of  the  great  imaginative  artists  of  the 
day,  Madala,'  I  said  to  her,  '  that's  rather  sweep- 
ing.' *  But  that's  why,'  she  said.  «  It's  just  be- 
cause he's  a  genius.  He  lives  on  himself,  in  him- 
self. Kent's  an  island.'  I  said  — *  No  chance  of  a 
bridge,  Madala?  '  She  shook  her  head.  '  Not  my 
job.'  I  said  I  was  sorry.  I  was,  too.  It  would 
have  been  so  ideal,  that  pair.  I  wanted  to  argue 
it  with  her ;  but  she  wouldn't  listen.  She  said  — 
*  If  I  weren't  an  artist  too,  then  maybe  —  maybe. 
I'm  very  fond  of  Kent.  But  no  —  I'd  want  too 
much.  But,  you  know,  there's  a  woman  some- 
where, rather  like  me  —  I  hope  he'll  marry  her. 
I'd  love  her.  She'd  never  be  jealous  of  me.  She'd 
understand.  She's  me  without  the  writing,  with- 
out the  outlet.  She'll  pour  it  all  into  loving  him. 
I  hope  she's  alive  somewhere.  He'd  be  awfully 
happy.  And  if  he  had  children  —  that's  what  he 
needs.  I  can  just  see  him  with  children.  But  not 
my  children.  If  I  married  —  And  then  she 

flushed  up  to  the  eyes  in  that  way  she  had,  as  if 
she  were  fifteen.  '  I  —  I'd  like  to  be  married  for 
myself,  for  my  faults,  for  the  bits  I  don't  tell  any- 
one. Kent  would  hate  my  faults.  I'd  have  to 
hide  my  realest  self.'  She  stood  staring  out  of  the 
window.  Then  she  said,  still  in  that  rueful,  child- 
ish voice  — '  I  would  like  to  be  liked.'  *  But,  my 
160 


LEGEND 

dear  girl,'  said  I,  *  what  nonsense  you  talk !     If 

ever  a  woman  had  friends '  She  flung  round 

at  me  again  — '  If  I'd  not  written  Eden  Walls 
would  Anita  have  looked  at  me  —  or  any  of  you?  ' 
I  said  — '  That's  not  a  fair  question.  Your  books 
are  you,  the  quintessence,  the  very  best  of  you.' 

*  But  the  rest  of  me?  '  she  said,  '  but  the  rest  of 
me?'     I  laughed  at  her.     *  Well,  what  about  the 
rest  of  you?  '     Then  she  said,  in  a  small  voice  — 

*  It  feels  rather  out  of  it  sometimes,  Lila.'  " 

"  I  say,"  Mr.  Flood  twinkled  at  her,  "  are  you 
going  to  present  all  this  to  Anita?  She'd  be 
grateful." 

"Not  she,"  said  Miss  Howe  sharply.  "Too 
much  fact  would  spoil  her  theory.  Let  her  spin 
her  own  web." 

"  Agreed.  There's  room  for  more  than  one  bi- 
ography, eh?  "  They  laughed  together  a  little 
consciously. 

"  You  know,"  the  blonde  lady  recalled  them, 
"  she  must  have  been  quite  a  good  actress.  She 
always  seemed  perfectly  contented." 

"  Imagine  Madala  Grey  discontented,"  said  the 
Baxter  girl.  "  How  could  she  be?  " 

"  Oh,  Kent  was  at  the  root  of  that,"  said  Miss 
Howe,  "  for  all  her  talk." 

Mr.  Flood  nodded. 

"  Yes,  the  lady  did  protest  too  much,  if  your 
report's  correct." 

"It's  the  only  explanation  and,  as  you  said, 
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LEGEND 

Blanche,  in  her  heart  Anita  knows  it.  After  all, 
he's  a  somebody.  Madala  wouldn't  be  the  only 
one  who's  found  him  attractive,  eh?  "  She  cocked 
an  eyebrow. 

"  Don't  be  scandalous,  Lila,"  said  the  blonde 
lady  virtuously,  and  Mr.  Flood  gave  his  little  sniff 
of  enjoyment. 

"  Oh,  give  me  five  minutes,"  said  Miss  Howe 
cosily.  "  She'll  be  down  in  five  minutes.  I've 
been  good  all  the  evening.  But  I'm  inclined  to 
agree  with  her,  you  know,  that  Madala  was  at- 
tracted, just  because  Madala  denied  it  so  vehe- 
mently. Only  Anita  goes  too  far  for  me.  She's 
right,  of  course,  when  she  says  of  Kent  — '  Not  a 
marrying  man ! '  but  not  in  the  way  she  means  it. 
There  are  dark  and  awful  things  in  the  history  of 
every  unmarried  man,  to  Anita.  She  scents  in- 
trigue everywhere.  I'm  a  spinster  myself,  but  I'm 
not  such  a  spidery  spinster.  She  may  be  partly 
right.  Some  other  man,  some  question-mark  of  a 
man,  may  have  treated  Madala  badly.  But  Kent 
didn't.  Kent  isn't  that  sort.  Intrigue  would  bore 
him.  Still,  he  wasn't  a  marrying  man  in  those 
days,  and  I  think  Madala  was  perfectly  honest 
when  she  said  — '  Just  friends.'  But  I  think  also, 
if  you  ask  me,  that  they  were  far  too  good  friends. 
It's  not  wise  to  be  friends  with  a  man.  You  must 
be  a  woman  first  and  let  him  know  it.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  these  platonic  friendships.  So  I  think 
that  in  time  Madala  found  out  where  they  were 
162 


LEGEND 

making  the  mistake.  And  he  didn't,  or  wouldn't. 
Oh  well !  "  she  paused  expressively,  "  he's  finding 
it  out  now.  He  has  been  all  the  year.  Didn't  you 
see  his  face  when  he  came  in  tonight?  Madala 
shouldn't  have  hurried.  Poor  Madala !  Though 
I  don't  think  it  broke  her  heart,  you  know." 

"  No."  The  blonde  lady  nodded.  "  She  was 
too  serene,  too  placid,  for  real  passion.  She  could 
draw  it  well  enough,  but  always  from  the  outside." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  the  Baxter  girl. 
"  Think  of  the  end  of  Ploughed  Fields." 

"  Let's  give  her  some  credit  for  imagination,  even 
if  we  don't  say  *  genius  ' !  I  agree  with  Blanche. 
Oh,  perhaps  her  heart  did  crack  just  a  little " 

The  blonde  lady  struck  in  — 

"  But  then  Carey's  a  doctor.     So  convenient !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Flood.  "I  always  said  he 
caught  her  on  the  rebound." 

"  And  then,  to  mix  metaphors,  the  fat  was  in 
the  fire.  Then,  Kent  woke  up  to  her.  Isn't  it  ob- 
vious? He  was  fond  of  Madala  Grey,  but  it  was 
Mrs.  Carey  that  he  fell  in  love  with.  Just  like 
a  man ! " 

"  Oh,  I  hate  you,"  said  Mr.  Flood.  "  You  de- 
stroy my  illusions.  I'm  like  Anita.  I  demand  the 
tragic  Madala." 

"  You  can  have  her,  I  should  think,"  said  the 
Baxter  girl  thoughtfully.  "  Oh,  of  course  your 
theory  does  seem  probable  as  far  as  it  goes,  Miss 

Howe,  but " 

163 


LEGEND 

"  But  what?  "  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  Well,  she  hardly  ever  came  to  town  after- 
wards, did  she?  " 

"  Ah,  Madala  was  always  wise,"  said  the  blonde 
lady. 

Mr.  Flood  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  Thank  you,  Beryl.  We're  in  sympathy. 
And  it's  quite  a  satisfying,  tragical  picture,  isn't 
it?  The  two  artists  —  he  with  his  lay  figure  and 
she  with  her  Hodge,  and  the  long  year  between 
them.  Can't  you  see  them,  cheated,  desirous, 
stretching  out  to  each  other  their  impotent  hands  ? 
One  could  make  something  out  of  that." 

"  You  could,  Mr.  Flood,"  said  the  Baxter  girl 
fervently. 

"Out  of  what?"  Anita  was  always  noiseless. 
I  jumped  to  hear  her  voice  so  close  behind  me. 

Miss  Howe  looked  up  at  her  quizzingly. 

"  Madala  and  -          Where  is  Kent?  " 

"With  Mother  still.  He's  managed  her  ex- 
traordinarily. She's  getting  sleepy,  thank  good- 
ness !  He'll  be  down  in  a  minute."  Then,  with  a 
change  of  tone  — "  Madala  and  Kent  ?  I  think 
not,  Lila  dear." 

"  But  you  said  yourself "  the  Baxter  girl 

interposed. 

"  Oh  no  !     I  flung  it  out  —  a   suggestion  —  a 

possibility.     I    haven't    committed    myself  —  yet. 

I  wish  I  could  be  sure  of  Kent.     He's  upset  my 

conception  of  him  tonight.     I  should  have  said  — 

164 


LEGEND 

selfish.  Especially  over  Madala.  But  all  men  are 

selfish.  Yet,  tonight "  she  hesitated,  playing 

with  the  papers  that  lay  half  in,  half  out  of  the 
open  desk.  "But  who  was  it,  if  it  wasn't  Kent? 

Because  there  was  someone,  you  know "  And 

then,  as  if  Miss  Howe's  smile  annoyed  her  beyond 
prudence — "Do  you  think  I'm  inventing?  Do 
you  think  I've  talked  for  amusement's  sake?  I 
tell  you,  she  was  on  the  verge  of  an  elopement. 
Without  benefit  of  clergy !  " 

"  Anita !  "     Miss  Howe  half  rose  from  her  chair. 

"We're  getting  it  at  last."  Mr.  Flood  ad- 
dressed the  room.  "  I  knew  she  had  something  up 
her  sleeve." 

"  I  don't  believe  —  I  won't  believe  it,"  said  Miss 
Howe. 

Then  Anita  smiled. 

"  Didn't  I  say  she  was  careless  about  her  drafts? 
I've  a  fragment  here  —  no,  I've  left  it  in  my  writ- 
ing-table   "  and  she  rose  as  she  spoke  — "  no 

name,  but  it's  proof  enough.  It's  an  answer  to 
some  man's  letter." 

"  But  does  she  definitely  consent ?  "  began 

the  Baxter  girl. 

"  Not  in  so  many  words.  But  it's  obvious  there 
was  some  cause  or  impediment,  and  he,  whoever 
he  is,  has  evidently  had  qualms  of  conscience  about 
letting  her  call  the  world  well  lost  for  his  sweet 
sake." 

"  That  would  rule  out  Kent,  of  course,"  said 
165 


LEGEND 

Miss  Howe  thoughtfully.  "  There  was  no  reason 
why  Kent  shouldn't  marry." 

"  We  know  of  none,"  said  Anita  in  her  sugges- 
tive voice.  "  Isn't  that  as  much  as  one  can  say 
of  any  man?  " 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  Baxter  girl,  illuminated.  I 
don't  know  why  —  her  round  eyes,  I  suppose,  and 
her  pursed  mouth  —  but  she  reminded  me  of  the 
woodcut  of  Minerva's  owl  in  Larousse. 

"  So  you  see  my  prune  difficulty.  I've  passed 
under  review  every  man  of  her  acquaintance,  till  I 
narrowed  down  the  possible 

"  Affinities,"  said  the  blonde  lady. 

" —  to  Kent  Rehan,  John  Carey,  and  this  prob- 
able but  unknown  third.  There  I  hang  fire.  Un- 
til I  make  up  my  mind  on  which  of  the  three  her 
love  story  hinges,  I  can't  do  more  than  trifle  with 
the  Life.  And  how  shall  I  make  up  my  mind?  " 

"Three?"  said  Mr.  Flood.  "Two.  You  can 
eliminate  the  husband.  He's  fifth  act,  not  third." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  But  I  never  jump  a  step. 
Which  leaves  me  the  unknown  —  or  Kent." 

The  blonde  lady  leant  forward  rather  eagerly  — 

"  Nita  !     Where's  that  letter?  " 

"  I'll  get  it."  She  went  across  the  room  to  her 
writing-table. 

The  Baxter  girl  twisted  her  head. 

"  I  say !     He's  coming  down  the  stairs." 

"  If  she  read  aloud  that  draft "  the  blonde 

lady's  drawl  had  disappeared.  She  glittered  like 
166 


LEGEND 


an  excited  schoolgirl  — "  he  might  recognize " 

"  You  mean ?  "  Mr.  Flood  raised  his  eye- 
brows but  Anita,  fumbling  with  her  keys,  did  not 
hear. 

"  It  would  be  nice  to  be  sure,"  said  the  blonde 
lady. 

"  It's  rather  cruel,  isn't  it?  "  said  Miss  Howe 
uneasily. 

"  Why?  It'll  be  printed  in  the  Life.  Besides, 
it  may  not  have  been  written  to  him." 

"  That's  why,"  said  Miss  Howe. 

"  It  would  be  nice  to  be  quite  sure,"  said  the 
blonde  lady  again.  And  as  she  spoke  Kent  Rehan 
came  into  the  room. 

At  once  I  got  up,  with  some  blind,  blundering 
idea,  I  believe,  of  stopping  him,  of  frustrating 
them,  but  Anita  was  nearer  to  him  than  I. 

"  Is  she  asleep  ?  Very  good  of  you,  Kent.  Sit 
here,  Kent.  Jenny,  is  the  window  open  in  the 
passage?  Very  cold.  I  never  knew  such  a 
draught." 

I  went  out  to  see.  I  had  to  do  as  I  was  told. 
Besides,  how  could  I  have  stopped  them  or  him? 
Yet  I  was  shaking  with  anger  and  disgust  at  them, 
and  at  myself  for  my  hateful  tongue-tied  youth 
and  insignificance.  An  older  woman  would  have 
known  what  to  do.  Shaking  with  cold  too  — 
Anita  was  right  —  it  was  bitter  cold  in  the  pas- 
sage. I  could  hardly  see  my  way  to  the  window 
for  the  fog.  It  was  open  an  inch  at  the  bottom, 
167 


LEGEND 

and  at  my  touch  it  rattled  down  with  a  bang  that 
echoed  oddly.  For  an  instant  I  thought  it  was 
a  knock  at  the  hall  door.  I  stood  a  minute,  quite 
startled,  peering  down  into  the  black  well  of  the 
hall.  But  there  was  no  second  knock,  only  the 
fog-laden  draught  of  the  passage  came  rushing  up 
at  me  again,  and  again  Anita  called  to  me  to  come 
in  and  shut  the  door.  I  did  so:  and  because  it 
rattled,  wedged  it  with  the  screw  of  paper  that  lay 
near  it  on  the  floor,  the  crumpled  telegram  that 
Kent  Rehan  had  dropped  when  he  first  came  in. 
Then,  still  shivering  a  little,  I  sat  down  where  I 
was.  I  didn't  want  to  go  nearer.  I  knew  my  face 
was  tell-tale.  I  didn't  want  to  have  the  Baxter 
girl  looking  at  me,  and  maybe  saying  something. 
I  could  hear  them  in  the  other  room  well  enough. 
Anita's  voice  seemed  to  out  through  the  thick  air. 
There  was  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She  was  twisting 
it  about  as  if  she  couldn't  find  the  first  page. 

" —  obviously  a  draft."     She  held  it  away  from 
her.     Anita  was  long-sighted. 

"  Dear  —  dear 

Then  it  breaks  off  and  begins  again.  You  see?  " 
She  displayed  it  to  them. 

"  Dearest " 

"  Why,  how  clearly  it's  written !  "     The  Baxter 
girl  peered  at  it.     "  That's  quite  a  beautiful  hand. 
That's  not  Madala's  scrawl." 
168 


LEGEND 

The  blonde  lady  looked  at  them  through  half 
shut  lids. 

"  Ah !     It's  been  written  slowly " 

"  As  if  she  loved  writing  it !  "  The  Baxter  girl 
flushed.  "  Did  she  know  about  that  sort  of  thing 
—  that  sentimental  sort  of  thing?  I  should  have 
thought  her  too  —  oh,  too  splendid,  removed  — 
you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  talked  about  it,"  said 
Anita  coldly.  "  She  was  not  of  your  generation." 
And  then,  to  the  others  — "  I  assure  you,  this  letter 
shook  me.  Even  I  never  dreamed  of  this  side  of 
her.  Listen."  She  read  aloud  in  her  measured 
voice  — 

"  Dearest  — 

I  wanted  your  letter  so.  I  reckoned  out  the  posts,  and 
the  distances,  and  your  busyness.  I  thought  that  in  two 
days  you  would  probably  write,  and  then  I  gave  you  another 
day's  grace  because  you  hate  writing  letters,  and  because  I 
thought  you  couldn't  dream  how  much  I  missed  you  —  how 
much,  how  soon,  I  wanted  to  hear.  And  then  to  get  your 
letter  the  very  next  day,  before  I  could  begin  to  look  for  it 
(but  I  did  look!).  Why,  you  must  have  written  as  soon  as 
the  train  was  out  of  the  station!  You  missed  me  just  as 
much  then? 

But  it's  a  mad  letter,  you  know.  It  makes  me  laugh  and 
cry.  It's  so  sensible  —  and  so  silly.  '  Fame,'  '  career/ 
'  reputation,'  '  position '  —  why  do  you  fling  these  words  at 
me?  /  am  making  a  sacrifice?  Darling,  haven't  you  eyes? 
Don't  you  understand  that  you're  my  world?  All  these 
other  things,  since  I've  known  you,  they're  shadows,  they're 
toys,  I  don't  want  them.  The  reviews  of  my  new  book  — 
169 


LEGEND 

I've  never  been  so  delighted  at  getting  any  —  but  why? 
D'you  know  why?  To  show  them  to  you  —  to  watch  you 
shake  with  laughter  as  you  read  them.  When  a  flattering 
letter  turns  up,  I  save  it  to  show  you  as  if  it  were  gold, 
because  I  think  —  'Perhaps  it'll  make  him  think  more  of 
me.'  Isn't  it  idiotic?  But  I  do.  And  all  the  while  I  glory 
in  the  knowledge  that  all  these  things,  all  the  fuss  and  fame, 
don't  mean  a  brass  button  to  you  —  or  to  me,  my  dear,  or 
to  me. 

And  yet  you  write  me  a  solemn  letter  about  'making  a 
sacrifice,'  '  abdicating  a  position.' 

Don't  be  —  humble.  And  yet  I  like  you  in  this  mood. 
Because  it  won't  last!  I  won't  let  it.  It's  I  who  am  not 
good  enough.  If  you  knew  how  I  tip-toe  sometimes. 
You're  so  much  bigger  than  I  am.  I  lie  in  bed  at  nights, 
and  all  the  things  I've  done  wrong  in  my  life,  all  the  twisty, 
tortuous,  feminine  things,  all  the  lies  and  cowardices  and 
conceits,  come  and  sting  me.  I'm  so  bitterly  ashamed  of 
them.  I  feel  I've  got  to  tell  you  about  them  all,  and  yet 
that  if  I  do  you'll  turn  me  out  of  your  heart.  If  you  did 
that  —  if  you  were  disappointed  —  if  you  got  tired  of  me  — 
it  turns  me  sick  with  fear. 

I'm  a  fool  to  tear  myself.  I  know  you  love  me.  And 
when  you're  with  me  I  forget  all  that.  I'm  just  happy. 
When  you're  there  it's  like  being  in  the  blazing  sunshine. 
Can  'celebrity'  give  me  that  sunshine?  Can  'literature' 
fill  my  emptiness?  Are  the  books  I  write  children  to  love 
me  with  your  eyes  ?  Oh,  you  fool ! 

Oh,  of  course,  I  know  you  don't  mean  it.  It's  just  that 
you  think  you  ought  to  protest.  But  suppose  I  took  you 
at  your  word?  Suppose  I  said  that,  on  careful  considera- 
tion, I  felt  that  I  wanted  to  lead  my  own  life  instead  of 
yours?  that  — how  does  the  list  run?  —  my  Work,  my  Circle 
of  Friends,  my  Career,  were  too  much  to  give  up  for  — 
you?  What  would  you  say  —  no,  do?  for  even  I,  (and  the 
170 


LEGEND 

sun's  in  my  eyes)  even  I  can't  call  you  eloquent!  But 
what  would  you  do  if  I  wouldn't  come  to  you? 

Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  I'd 
rather  be  a  door-keeper  in  the  house  of  my  God 

I'm  changed.  What  have  you  done  to  me?  Other  people 
notice  it.  My  friends  are  grown  critical  of  me.  Only  yes- 
terday someone  (no  one  you  know)  sneered  at  me  —  'In 
love?  Oh  well,  you'll  get  over  it.  It's  a  phase.'  You 
know,  they  don't  understand.  I'm  not  '  in  love,'  but  I  love 
you.  There's  the  difference.  I  love  you.  I  shall  love  you 

till  I  die.  Till ?  As  if  death  could  blot  you  out  for 

me!  I  used  to  believe  in  death.  I  used  to  believe  it  ended 
everything.  But  now,  since  I've  known  you,  I  can  never 
die.  You've  poured  into  me  an  immortal  spirit " 

"  Go  on,"  breathed  the  Baxter  girl. 

"  It  breaks  off  there.  It's  not  signed.  It  was 
never  sent." 

"  She  had  that  much  wisdom,  then."  The 
blonde  lady's  laughter  came  to  us  over  Mr.  Flood's 
shoulder.  "  That's  not  the  letter  to  send  to  any 
man.  Giving  herself  away  —  giving  us  all 
away " 

"To  any  man?  To  what  man?  There's  the 
point.  You  see  the  importance.  It's  the  heart  of 
the  secret.  Who  is  it?  For  whom  was  she  ready 
to  give  up,  in  her  own  words,  name,  friends,  ca- 
reer  ?" 

"  Well,  practically  she  did  that,  didn't  she,  when 
she  married  Carey?  She  buried  herself  in  the 
country.  She  didn't  write  a  line.  You  said  your- 
171 


LEGEND 

self  that  she  put  her  career  behind  her.  Why 
shouldn't  it  be  written  to  Carey?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  be  absurd.  It's  Carey  that  makes 
it  impossible.  How  could  Carey  have  written  a 
letter  needing  such  an  answer?  Little  he  cared. 
What  was  her  genius  to  him?  Isn't  it  obvious, 
isn't  it  plain  as  print,  that  Carey  happened,  Carey 
and  all  he  stands  for,  after  the  writing  of  this  let- 
ter, because  of  some  hitch?  Why  wasn't  the  letter 
sent?  What  happened?  What  folly?  What 
misunderstanding?  What  disillusionment?  What 
realization  of  danger?  —  to  send  her,  with  that  let- 
ter half  written,  into  Carey's  arms?  Carey,  that 
stick,  that  ordinary  man !  And  on  the  top  of  it 
The  Resting-place  comes  out,  the  cri  du  cceur  — 
or,  if  you  like,  Lila,  the  satire  —  (for  I'm  begin- 
ning to  believe  you're  right)  the  satire  of  The 
Resting-place.  I  tell  you,  I  smell  tragedy." 

"  It's  supposition,  it's  mere  supposition,"  said 
Miss  Howe  impatiently. 

"  Isn't  all  detective  work  supposition  to  begin 
with?  Wait  till  I've  made  my  book.  Wait  till 
I've  sifted  my  evidence,  till  I've  ranged  it,  stick 
and  brick,  step  by  step,  up,  up,  up,  to  the  letter." 

Suddenly  from  where  he  sat,  half  way  between 
me  and  them,  Kent  spoke  — 

"  Anita,  you  can't  publish  that  letter." 

Her  face,  all  their  faces,  turned  towards  us. 
She  stared. 

"Why  not?"  And  then— "Why  do  you  sit 
172 


LEGEND 

out   there?     Come   here.     Come  into  the  light." 

He  did  not  stir. 

She  frowned,  puckering  her  eyes. 

"  Such  a  fog,"  she  said  fretfully.  "  I  can't  see 
you.  Can't  you  keep  that  door  shut,  Jenny?  " 
Then  — "  Well,  Kent  —  why  not  ?  Why  not  ?  " 

He  said  slowly  — 

"  It's  not  decent." 

She  flared  at  once. 

"  Decent !  Not  decent !  What  on  earth  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

He  kept  her  waiting  while  he  thought  it  out. 

"  I  mean  —  it's  not  right,  it's  not  fair.  To 
whomever  it  was  written,  that's  her  business,  not 

our    business.     And    that    letter It's    vile, 

anyway,  publishing  her  letters." 

She  stared  at  him  in  a  sort  of  angry  bewilder- 
ment. 

"  But  why  ?  I  shall  write  her  life.  One  always 
does  print  letters." 

"  Not  that  sort  of  letter,"  he  said. 

"  But  don't  you  see,"  she  cried,  "  that  that  let- 
ter, just  that  letter " 

He  said  — 

"  That's  why.  How  dare  you  read  that  letter 
here  —  aloud  —  tonight?  It  —  it's  ghoulish." 

"  Kent !  "     There  was  outrage  in  her  voice. 

"  But,  Kent "  Miss  Howe  intervened  — "  we 

knew  her  —  we  care  —  it's  in  all  reverence " 

And  Mr.  Flood  — 

173 


LEGEND 

"  My  dear  man,  she's  not  a  private  character. 
The  lives  that  will  be  written !  Anita's  may  be  the 
classic,  but  it  won't  be  the  only  one.  Letters  are 
bound  to  be  printed  —  every  scrap  she  ever  wrote. 
Nobody  can  stop  it.  It's  only  a  question  of  time. 
The  public  has  its  rights." 

"To  what?"  He  turned  savagely.  "You've 
had  her  books.  She's  given  enough.  Will  you 
leave  her  nothing  private,  nothing  sacred?  " 

"  But,  Kent,  can't  you  see "    Anita  had  an 

air  of  pushing  Miss  Howe  and  Mr.  Flood  from  her 

road  — "  aren't  you  artist  enough  to  see ?     A 

writer,  a  woman  like  Madala,  she  has  no  private 
life.  She  lives  to  write.  She  lives  what  she  writes. 
She  is  what  she  writes.  She  gives  her  soul  to  the 
world.  She  leaves  her  riddle  to  be  read.  Don't 
you  see?  to  be  read.  That's  what  I'm  doing. 
That's  what  I'm  going  to  do  —  read  her  —  for  the 
rest  of  you,  for  the  public.  Because  —  because 
they  care,  because  we  all  care.  It's  done  in  all 
honour.  It's  a  tribute.  And  for  what  I  am  going 
to  do,  such  a  letter  is  the  key." 

She  spoke  softly,  sweetly,  persuasively.  She 
wooed  him  to  agree  with  her.  She  was  extraordi- 
narily eager  for  his  approval.  And  the  approval 
of  the  others  she  did  win.  They  were  all  mur- 
muring agreement. 

His  eyes  strayed  over  them,  undecidedly,  seeking 
—  not  help.  I  do  not  know  what  he  sought,  but 
his  eyes  found  mine. 

174 


LEGEND 

"  You "  he  said  to  me  — "  would  you  wont 

jour  letter ?" 

Anita's  voice  thrust  in  sharply.  In  the  instant 
the  pleading,  the  beauty,  the  woman,  was  gone 
from  it.  It  was  cold  and  shrill. 

"  Jenny's  views  can  hardly  concern  us." 

But  he  did  not  listen  to  her.  He  had  drawn 
some  answer  from  me  that  satisfied  him.  He  got 
up. 

"  Oh,"  I  cried  beneath  my  breath,  and  I  think  I 
touched  his  arm  — "  you  won't  let  her?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  Then  he  went  across  to 
where  Anita  stood,  her  eyes  on  him,  on  me,  while 
she  listened  to  Miss  Howe  whispering  at  her 
shoulder. 

"  Look  here,  Anita  !  "  he  began. 

"  I'm  looking,"  she  said. 

He  checked  a  moment,  puzzled.  Then  he  went 
on  — 

"  That  letter  —  you  can't  print  it.  You've  no 
right.  It's  not  your  property." 

She  waved  it  aside. 

"  I  shall  be  literary  executor.  She  promised. 
It's  mine  if  it's  anyone's.  It's  no  good,  Kent,  it 
goes  into  the  book.  Nothing  can  alter  that. 
Nothing " 

Then  she  stopped  dead.     There  was  that  same 
odd  look  in  her  eye  as  there  had  been  when  she 
watched  us  —  that  flicker  of  curiosity,  and  behind 
it  the  same  gleam  of  inexplicable  anger. 
175 


LEGEND 

"  Look  here "  she  said  very  deliberately  — 

"  look  you  here  —  what  has  it  got  to  do  with 
you?  " 

It  was  not  the  words,  it  was  the  tone.  It  was 
shameless.  It  was  as  if  she  had  cried  aloud  her 
hateful  questions  — '  Did  you  love  her  ?  '  '  What 
was  there  between  you ?  '  'I  want  to  know  it  all. 
It  tears  me  not  to  know.'  But  what  she  said  to 
him,  and  before  he  could  answer,  was  — 

"  If,  of  course  —  anyone  —  had  any  right  — 
could  prove  any  right  —  She  broke  off, 

watching  him  closely.  But  he  said  nothing. 
"  If,"  she  said,  and  poked  with  her  finger,  "  if  that 
letter  —  if  you  recognized  it  —  if  that  were  the 
rough  draft  of  a  letter  that  had  been  sent  — 

He  stared  down  at  her.     His  face  was  bleak. 

"  You'll  get  no  copy  from  me,  Anita !  " 

"Oh!"  She  caught  her  breath,  fierce  and 
wicked  as  a  cat  with  a  bird,  yet  shrinking  as  a  cat 
does,  supple,  ears  flat.  "  I  only  meant  —  I  said 
right.  If  anyone  —  if  you  could  satisfy  me  —  if 
you  have  any  right " 

He  said  — 

"  I  have  no  right." 

"  Oh  well,  then !  "     She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  But,"  he  held  stubbornly  to  his  purpose, 
"  whoever  has  a  right  to  it  —  you  can't  print  that 
letter." 

She  laughed  at  him. 

"You'll  see!     You'll  see!" 
176 


LEGEND 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I'll  see." 

They  held  each  other's  eyes,  angry,  angry.  I 
felt  how  Kent  Rehan  loathed  her.  And  she  — 
yes,  she  must  have  hated  him.  She  was  all  bitter- 
ness and  triumph  and  defiance.  Yet  all  the  time  I 
was  wanting  to  catch  him  by  the  arm  and  say  — 

*  Be  kind  to  her.     Say  something  kind  and  she'll 
give  in.'     I  knew  it.     He  had  only  to  say  in  that 

instant  — '  Anita,  I  beg  of  you '  and  she  would 

have  given  him  the  letter.     I  knew  it.     I  know  it. 
I  don't  know  how  I  knew  it,  but  I  was  sure.     But 
lie  was  a  man :  of  course  he  saw  nothing.     He  was 
very  angry.     He  looked  big  and  fine.     I  wondered 
that  she  could  stand  outfacing  him. 

But  she,  for  answer,  picked  up  the  letter,  and 
affected  to  search  through  it. 

"Had  I  finished?     Where  was  I?     Ah,  yes  — 

*  An  immortal  spirit  — 

His  hand  came  down  heavily  and  swept  the  light 
table  aside. 

"  You  can't  do  it.  You  shan't  do  it.  By  God 
you  shan't." 

How  it  happened  I  couldn't  see.  He  was  too 
quick.  But  at  one  moment  she  held  the  letter,  and 
in  the  next  he  had  it,  and  was  kneeling  at  the 
grate,  while  she  cried  out  — 

"  Kent !  "  And  then  — "  Lila !  Jasper !  Stop 
him ! " 

Nobody  could  have  stopped  him.  There  was  no 
flame,  but  the  fire  still  burned,  a  caked  red  and 
177 


LEGEND 

black  lump,  smouldering  on  cinders.  He  picked  it 
up  —  with  his  naked  hands  —  thrust  in  the  crum- 
pled stiff  paper,  and  smashed  it  down  again,  so 
that  the  lump  split,  and  still  held  it  pressed  down, 
with  naked  hands,  till  the  sheet  had  charred  and 
shrivelled  into  nothing.  I  suppose  it  all  happened 
in  a  few  seconds,  but  it  seemed  like  hours.  I  was 
in  a  train  smash  once :  I  wasn't  hurt ;  but  I  remem- 
ber that  I  came  out  of  it  with  just  the  same  sense 
of  being  battered  and  aged.  This  scene  I  had  only 
watched :  I  had  not  shared  in  it :  I  was  still  in  the 
little  outer  room.  Yet  I  was  shaken.  I  heard 
Mr.  Flood  call  out  — "  Kent,  you  crazy  fool !  "  I 
heard  Anita  — "  Let  me  go,  Lila  !  "  And  then  the 
women  were  between  me  and  him,  and  I  could  only 
see  their  backs,  and  there  was  a  babel  of  voices, 
and  I  found  myself  sitting  like  a  fool,  clutching 
at  the  arms  of  my  chair,  and  saying  over  and  over 
again  — "  Oh,  his  hands,  his  hands,  his  poor 
hands ! "  The  tears  were  running  down  my 
cheeks. 

But  nobody  noticed  me.  They  were  all  too 
busy.  The  group  had  shifted  a  little.  The  Bax- 
ter girl  was  edged  out  of  it,  and  I  watched  her  for 
a  moment  as  she  sat  down  again,  her  cheeks  flaming, 
her  eyes  as  bright  as  wet  pebbles.  She  looked  — 
it's  the  only  word  —  consumptive  with  excitement. 
Every  now  and  then  she  tried  not  to  cough.  I 
heard  her  saying  — "  It's  the  fog,  it's  the  awful 
178 


LEGEND 

fog !  "  defensively.  But  nobody  listened.  They 
were  all  watching  Anita. 

Anita  was  dreadful.  She  was  tremulous  with 
anger.  She  was  like  a  pendulum  with  the  check 
taken  away.  Her  whole  body  shook.  She 
couldn't  finish  her  sentences.  She  talked  to  every- 
one at  once. 

Miss  Howe  had  her  by  the  arm.  Miss  Howe  was 
trying  to  quiet  her  — 

"  My  dear  woman  —  steady  now !  You  don't 
want  a  row,  you  know !  You've  got  the  rest  of  the 
papers."  But  she  might  have  talked  to  the  wind. 

"  He  comes  into  my  house  —  my  property  —  in 

my  own  house It's  an  outrage !  Kent,  it's 

an  outrage !  " 

Kent  Rehan  rose  to  his  feet.  It  was  like  a  rock 
breaking  through  that  froth  of  women.  He  stood 
a  moment,  nervously,  brushing  the  black  from  his 
hands  and  wincing  as  he  did  so.  Then  he  looked 
up.  His  eyes  met  her.  He  flushed. 

"  Kent !     Kent !  "     She  flung  off  Miss  Howe. 

The  intensity  of  reproach  in  her  voice  startled 
me,  and  I  think  it  startled  him.  I  found  myself 
thinking — 'All  this  anger  for  what?  for  a  burnt 
paper?  It's  impossible !  But  then  —  then  what's 
the  matter  with  her?  ' 

He  said  awkwardly  — 

"  I'm  sorry,  Anita." 

**  You!  "  she  cried,  panting  — "  You,  to  inter- 
179 


LEGEND 

fere !  D'you  know  what  you've  done,  what  you've 
tried  to  do?  Will  you  take  everything,  you  and 
he?  Haven't  I  my  work  too?  Oh,  what  you've 
had  from  her,  what  you've  had  from  her!  And 
now  you  cheat  me !  " 

He  was  bewildered.     He  said  again  — 

"I'm  sorry,  Anita." 

She  came  close  to  him.  Her  little  hands  were 
clenched.  There  was  a  wail  in  her  voice  — 

"  You!  Aren't  you  friends  with  me?  Didn't  I 
share  her  with  you?  Isn't  she  my  work  too? 
What  would  you  say  if  I  came  to  your  house  and 
saw  your  work,  your  life  work  that  she'd  made  pos- 
sible, your  pictures  that  are  her,  all  her  —  and 
slashed  them  with  a  knife?  What  would  you  do  if 
I'd  done  that,  if  I'd  cut  it  to  ribbons,  your  Spring 
Song?  " 

That  moved  him.  I  saw  a  sort  of  comprehen- 
sion lighting  his  stubborn  face.  The  artist  in  her 
touched  the  artist  in  him.  Of  what  lay  behind  the 
artist  he  had  no  knowledge.  But  he  said,  quite 
humbly  — 

"Anita,  I'm   sorry!" 

Yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not  sorry  for  what  he 
had  done. 

"  Sorry !     Sorry !     Much    good    your    sorrow 

does !  "  she  shrilled,  and  I  saw  him  stiffen  again. 

She  was  strange.      She  valued  him,  that  was  so 

plain,  and  yet,  it  almost  seemed  in  self-defence,  she 

180 


LEGEND 

was  always  at  her  worst  with  him.  "  Sorry  t  It 
was  the  key  of  the  book.  You've  spoilt  my  book." 

"  Nita !  Nita !  One  letter !  "  Miss  Howe  was 
almost  comical  in  her  dislike  of  the  scene.  "  As  if 
you  couldn't  pull  it  off  without  that."  She  pulled 
her  aside,  lowering  her  voice  — "  Nita,  what's  the 
use  of  a  row?  Pull  yourself  together.  Put  your- 
self in  his  place.  Besides  —  you  can't  af- 
ford   '  She  looked  at  Kent  significantly. 

Anita's  pale  glance  followed  her  and  so  their  eyes 
met  again.  She  was  angry  and  sullen  and  irreso- 
lute. Another  woman  would  have  been  near  tears. 

"Kent,"  she  began.  And  then  — "  Kent  —  if 

we  quarrel We're  too  old  to  quarrel If 

you  had  a  shadow  of  excuse " 

He  waited. 

She  took  fire  again  because  he  did  not  meet  her 
half  way. 

"  But  if  you  think  you've  stopped  me "  she 

cried.  She  broke  off  with  a  laugh  and  a  new  idea 
— "  As  if,"  she  said  slowly  and  scornfully,  "  as  if 
Madala  would  have  cared !  " 

He  said  distinctly  — 

"  You  didn't  know  her.  You'd  never  under- 
stand   " 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  pressing  forward  to  him,  "  why 
do  you  take  that  tone?  What  is  it  I  don't  under- 
stand? If  you'd  help  me  with  what  you  know,  it 
could  be  big  stuff.  I'd  forgive  you  for  the  letter 
181 


LEGEND 

if  you'd  work  with  me."     She  hung  on  his  answer. 

But  he  only  said,  not  looking  at  her,  in  the  same 
tone  — 

"  You'd  never  understand."  And  then,  with  an 
effort — "I'll  go,  Anita.  I'm  going.  I'd  better 
go." 

Without  waiting  for  her  answer  he  went  across 
the  room  to  the  little  sofa  near  me  where  the  hats 
and  coats  lay  piled.  I  heard  him  fumbling  for 
his  things. 

But  Anita  went  back  to  the  others.  The  watch- 
ing group  seemed  to  open  to  receive,  to  enclose 
her.  Her  head  had  touched  the  lamp  as  she  passed 
under  it,  and  set  it  swaying  wildly,  so  that  I  could 
scarcely  see  their  faces  in  that  shift  of  light  and 
shadow  through  the  thickened  air.  But  I  heard 
her  angry  laugh,  and  her  voice  overtopping  the 
murmur  — "  Mad  !  He  was  always  mad !  If  he 
weren't  such  an  old  friend  —  And  then  the 
Baxter  girl's  voice  — "  Think  of  the  sketches  there 
must  be  !  "  And  Miss  Howe  — "  What  I  say  is  — 
you  don't  want  to  quarrel !  "  And  hers  again  — 
"  Did  you  hear  him  ?  7  not  understand  Madala  ! 
Mad,  I  tell  you  !  If  I  don't  know  Madala " 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  I  looked  up  and  saw 
a  woman  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Anita ! "    I    murmured    warningly.     But    my 

voice  did  not  reach  her,  and  indeed,  she  and  the 

little    gesticulating    group    in    the    further    room 

seemed   suddenly    far   away.     The   air   had   been 

182 


LEGEND 

thickening  for  the  last  hour,  and  now,  with  the 
opening  of  the  door,  the  fog  itself  came  billowing 
in  on  either  side  of  the  newcomer  as  water  streams 
past  a  ship.  It  flooded  the  room,  soundlessly,  al- 
most, I  remember  thinking,  purposefully,  as  if  it 
would  have  islanded  us,  Kent  and  me.  It  affected 
me  curiously.  I  felt  muffled.  I  knew  I  ought  to 
get  up  and  call  again  to  Anita  or  attend  to  the 
visitor  myself,  but  the  quiet  seemed  to  dull  my  wits. 
I  found  myself  placidly  wondering  who  she  was  and 
why  she  did  not  come  in ;  but  I  made  no  movement 
to  welcome  her.  I  just  sat  still  and  stared. 

She  was  a  tall  girl  —  woman  —  for  either  word 
fitted  her:  she  had  brown  hair.  She  was  dressed 
in  —  I  should  have  said,  if  you  had  asked  me,  that 
I  could  remember  every  detail,  and  I  can  in  my 
own  mind ;  but  when  I  try  to  write  it  down,  it 
blurs.  But  I  know  that  there  was  blue  in  her 
dress,  and  bright  colours.  It  must  have  been  some 
flowered  stuff.  She  looked  —  it's  a  silly  phrase  — 
but  she  looked  like  a  spring  day.  I  wanted  her  to 
come  into  the  room  and  drive  away  the  fog  that 
was  making  me  blink  and  feel  dizzy.  There  was 
a  gold  ring  on  her  finger :  yes,  and  her  hands  were 
beautiful  —  strong,  white  hands.  In  one  she  held 
the  brass  candle-stick  that  stood  in  the  hall,  and 
with  the  other  she  sheltered  the  weak  flame  from 
the  draught.  Yet  not  only  with  her  hand.  Her 
arm  was  crooked  maternally,  her  shoulder  thrust 
forward,  her  hip  raised,  in  a  gesture  magnificently 
183 


LEGEND 

protecting,  as  though  the  new-lit  tallow-end  were 
fire  from  heaven.  Her  whole  body  seemed  sacredly 
involved  in  an  act  of  guardianship.  But  half  the 
glory  of  her  pose  —  and  it  was  lovely  enough  to 
make  me  catch  my  breath  —  was  its  unconscious- 
ness ;  for  her  attention  was  all  ours.  Her  eyes,  as 
she  listened  to  the  group  by  the  hearth,  were 
sparkling  with  amusement  and  that  tolerant,  deep 
affection  that  one  keeps  for  certain  dearest,  foolish 
friends.  It  was  evident  that  she  knew  them  well. 
"  Can't  you  keep  that  door  shut,  Jenny?  The 
draught  - 

Anita's  back  was  towards  me.  Her  voice,  as  she 
spoke  over  her  shoulder,  rang  high,  muffled, 
imperious,  and  —  I  laughed.  In  a  flash  the 
stranger's  eyes  were  on  me,  and  I  found  myself 
thrilling  where  I  sat,  absurdly  startled  for  the  mo- 
ment, because  —  she  knew  me  too !  She  knew  me 
quite  well.  She  was  smiling  at  me,  not  vaguely  as 
who  should  say  — '  Oh,  surely  I've  seen  you  some- 
where? '  but  with  intimate,  disturbing  knowledge. 
It  was  the  glance  that  a  doctor  gives  you,  the  swift, 
acquainted  glance  that,  without  offence,  deciphers 
you.  I  was  not  offended  either,  only  curious  and 
—  attracted.  She  looked  so  friendly.  I  half  be- 
gan to  say — 'But  when?  but  where?'  but  her 
bearing  overruled  me.  Her  mouth  was  pursed 
conspiratorially :  if  her  hand  had  been  free  she 
would  have  put  a  finger  to  her  lip.  I  smiled  back 
at  her,  flattered  to  be  partner  in  her  uncompre- 
184 


LEGEND 

bended  secret.  But  I  was  curious  —  oh,  I  was 
curious !  It  was  incredible  to  me  that  Anita  and 
the  rest  should  stand,  subduing  their  voices  to  the 
soft,  thick  stillness  that  she  and  the  fog  between 
them  had  brought  into  the  room,  and  yet  remain 
unconscious  of  her  vivid  presence.  I  was  longing 
to  see  their  faces  when  they  should  at  last  turn 
and  see  her,  and  yet,  if  you  understand,  I  was 
afraid  lest  they  should  turn  too  soon  and  break  the 
pleasant  numbness  that  was  upon  me.  And  upon 
them  —  the  spell  was  upon  them  too.  It  was  the 
look  in  her  eyes,  not  glamorous,  but  kind.  It 
healed.  It  passed  like  a  drowse  across  the  squab- 
blers at  the  table :  it  stilled  Anita's  feverish  mono- 
logue. Indeed  the  room  had  grown  very  still. 
There  was  no  sound  left  in  it  but  the  slurring  of 
the  lamp.  It  rested  upon  Kent  as  he  stood  in 
dumb  misery,  and  I  watched  the  strained  lines  of 
his  body  slacken  and  grow  easier  beneath  it.  At 
that  —  at  that  ease  she  gave  him  —  suddenly  I 
loved  her. 

And  as  if  I  had  spoken,  as  if  I  had  touched  her 
with  my  hand,  her  eyes,  that  had  grown  heavy  with 
his  trouble,  turned,  brightening,  upon  me,  as  if  I 
were  the  answer  to  a  problem,  the  lifting  of  a  care. 
But  what  the  problem  was  I  could  not  then  tell ; 
for,  staring  as  she  made  me  —  as  she  made  me  — 
into  her  divining  eyes,  I  saw  in  them  not  her 
thought  but  my  own  at  last  made  clear  to  me  — 
my  dream,  my  hope,  my  will  and  my  desire,  new- 
185 


LEGEND 

born  and  naked,  and,  I  swear  it,  bodiless  to  me 
before  that  night  and  that  hour.  It  was  too  soon. 
I  was  not  ready.  It  shamed  me  and  I  flinched,  my 
glance  wandering  helplessly  away  like  a  dog's  when 
you  have  forced  it  to  look  at  you.  And  so  noticed, 
idly,  uncomprehending  at  first,  and  then  with  a 
stiffening  of  my  whole  body,  that  her  hand  did  not 
show  as  other  hands,  blood-red  against  the  light 
she  screened,  but  coldly  luminous,  like  the  fingers 
of  a  cloud  through  which  the  moon  is  shining:  and 
that  her  breast  was  motionless,  unstirred  by  any 
breath.  ^ 

Then  I  was  afraid. 

I  felt  my  skin  rising.  I  felt  my  bones  grow 
cold.  I  could  not  move.  I  could  not  breathe.  I 
could  not  think. 

A  voice  came  out  of  the  fog  that  had  thickened 
to  a  wall  between  the  rooms  —  a  voice,  thin,  re- 
mote, like  a  trunk  call  — 

"  Can't  you  keep  that  door  shut,  Jenny?  The 
draught "  and  was  cut  off  again  by  the  sud- 
den crash  of  an  overturned  chair.  There  was  a 
rush  and  a  cry  —  a  madman's  voice,  shouting, 
screaming,  groaning  — 

"  Madala  Grey  !  My  God,  Madala  Grey !  "  and 
Kent's  huge  body,  hurling  against  the  door,  pitched 
and  fell  heavily. 

For  the  door  was  shut. 

I  ran  to  him.  He  was  shaken  and  half  stunned, 
but  he  struggled  to  his  feet.  It  was  dreadful  to 
186 


LEGEND 

see  him.  He  was  like  a  frightened  horse,  shivering 
and  sweating.  His  lips  were  loose  and  he  muttered 
unevenly  as  if  the  words  came  without  his  will.  I 
caught  them  as  I  helped  him ;  the  same  words  — 
always  the  same  words. 

I  got  him  to  the  sofa  while  the  rest  of  them 
crowded  and  clamoured,  and  then  I  found  myself 
taking  command.  I  made  them  keep  off.  I  sent 
Anita  for  water  and  a  towel  and  I  bathed  his  fore- 
head where  he  had  cut  it  on  the  moulding  of  the 
door.  Mr.  Flood  wanted  to  send  for  a  doctor,  but 
I  wouldn't  have  it.  I  knew  how  he  would  hate  it. 
Then  someone  —  the  Baxter  girl,  I  think  —  gig- 
gled hysterically  and  said  something  about  a  black 
eye  tomorrow,  and  then  — "  How  did  it  happen?  " 
"  Did  you  see,  Miss  Summer?  "  And  at  that  they 
all  began  to  clamour  again  like  an  orchestra  after 
a  solo,  repeating  in  all  their  voices  — "  Yes,  what 
happened?  What  on  earth  was  it?  Did  you  see 
him?  Some  sort  of  a  seizure?  I  told  you  twice 

to  shut  that  door.     The  draught Are  you 

better  now,  old  man  ?     Kent  —  what  happened  ?  " 

They  were  crowding  round  him  again.  He 
pointed  a  shaking  finger. 

"  She  saw,"  he  said.     "  She  knows » 

"  Jenny  ?  "  Anita  turned  on  me  sharply,  an 
employer  addressing  a  servant  at  fault.  "  Oh,  of 
course  —  you  were  in  here  too.  What  happened 
then?" 

I  had  a  helpless  moment. 
187 


LEGEND 

"Well?  "she  demanded. 

I  stared  at  her.  It  was  incredible,  but  there  was 
actually  jealousy  in  her  voice.  It  said,  pitifully 
plainly  — *  Again  I  have  missed  the  centre  of  a 
situation ! ' 

"Well?"  she  repeated.  And  then  — "  If  you 

saw  something She  altered  the  phrase  — 

"  Tell  us  what  you  saw." 

But  I  had  not  missed  the  quick  fear  that  had 
shown,  for  a  moment,  in  Kent's  eyes  —  fear  of  be- 
trayal even  while  his  tongue  was  betraying  him. 

I  laughed.  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  answered, 
*  Oh,  I  am  doing  this  beautifully ! '  And  I  was. 
My  voice  sounded  perfectly  natural,  not  a  bit  high. 
I  had  plenty  of  words.  I  said,  most  jauntily  — 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Nita,  I  could  hardly  see  my  own 
nose.  The  fog  had  been  simply  pouring  in.  My 
fault  —  I  didn't  latch  the  door  properly,  I  sup- 
pose. And  then  you  called,  and  Mr.  Rehan  went 
to  shut  it  for  me,  and  he  slithered  on  the  mat, 
and " 

"  I  see !  " 

"  Of  course !  Parquet "  The  Baxter  girl 

took  a  step  or  two  and  pirouetted  back  to  us. 
"  Perfect !  You  ought  to  give  a  dance,  Miss 
Serle." 

Anita  made  no  answer,  but  taking  the  can  and 

the   towel  she   opened  the   door   of  dispute,   and, 

stooping  an  instant  on  the  threshold  to  lift  some 

small  object  from  the  floor,  went  out  of  the  room. 

188 


LEGEND 

We  heard  her  set  down  her  load  on  the  landing,  and 
the  rattle  of  the  sash  as  she  threw  up  the  window, 
paused,  and  shut  it  again.  She  came  back.  A 
fresh  inflow  of  acrid  vapour  preceded  her  and  set 
us  coughing.  It  was  the  stooping,  I  suppose,  that 
had  reddened  her  cheeks,  for  she  was  flushed  when 
she  came  back  to  us.  It  was  the  only  time  that 
I  ever  saw  my  cousin  with  a  colour.  She  spoke  to 
us,  a  little  gaspingly,  as  if  the  fog  had  caught 
her  too  by  the  throat  — 

"  Jenny's  quite  right.  One  can't  see  an  inch  in 
front  of  one.  No  —  not  a  cab  in  hearing.  You'll 
have  to  resign  yourselves  to  staying  on  indefinitely. 
What  ?  oh,  what  nonsense,  Kent !  As  if  I'd  let  you 
go  in  that  state!  Besides,  there's  Jasper's  poem. 
Are  you  going  away  without  hearing  it?  "  The 
soft  monologue  continued  as  she  shepherded  them 
to  the  fire.  "  That's  always  the  way  —  one  talks 
—  one  gets  no  work  done.  Get  under  the  light, 
Jasper!  Beryl,  help  me  to  move  the  table.  Oh 
yes,  Jasper,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  I  met  Roy  Huth 
the  other  day  and  he  had  just  read  — 

I  heard  a  movement  behind  me.  I  turned. 
Kent  had  half  risen.  He  spoke  — 

"  Sit  down.  Sit  down  here."  He  touched  the 
cushion  beside  him. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Not  yet.     My  cousin " 

"Ah- 

We  were  silent. 

189 


LEGEND 

I  watched  Anita.  She  stood  a  few  moments  in 
unsmiling  superintendence,  while  the  women  settled 
themselves  and  Mr.  Flood  sorted  his  papers  and 
cleared  his  throat.  Then,  as  I  had  known  she 
would  do,  she  returned  soft-footed  to  her  purpose. 
At  the  same  moment  I  left  Kent  Rehan's  side. 
When  she  reached  the  archway  between  the  two 
rooms,  I  was  there. 

"  And  now "  she  confronted  me  — "  what 

happened? " 

"  I  told  you." 

She  smiled. 

"Did  you?  I  have  forgotten.  Tell  me 
again." 

"  Anita  —  he  slipped.  He  fell.  He  was  shut- 
ting the  door." 

"  Did  he  replace  this  ?  "  She  opened  her  little 
hand.  The  wedge  of  paper  that  I  had  twisted  lay 
on  her  palm.  "  It  was  shut  in  the  door  when  I 
opened  it  just  now."  She  waited  a  moment. 
Then,  with  a  certain  triumph — "Well?" 

I  said  nothing.     What  was  there  to  say? 

She  tossed  it  from  her. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Jenny!  What  was  it?  Who 
was  it  ?  "  Her  eyes  were  horribly  intelligent. 

"He  slipped.  He  fell.  He  was  shutting  the 
door."  I  felt  I  could  go  on  saying  that  for  ever 
and  ever. 

The  red  patches  in  her  cheeks  deepened.     She 
spoke  past  me,  rudely,  furiously  — 
190 


LEGEND 

"  I  intend  to  know.  I've  a  perfect  right 

Kent,  I  intend  to  know." 

I  put  out  my  arras  carelessly,  though  my  heart 
was  thudding,  and  rested  them  against  the  door- 
posts. 

"  He's  shaken  —  a  heavy  man  like  that.  Better 
leave  him  alone." 

"  I  intend  to  know,"  she  insisted.  And  then  — 
"  Jenny !  Jenny!  Let  me  pass." 

"  No  !  "  I  said. 

For  a  second  we  stood  opposed,  and  in  that  sec- 
ond I  realized  literally  for  the  first  time  (so  domi- 
nating had  her  personality  been)  that  she  was 
shorter  than  I.  She  was  dwindling  before  my 
eyes.  I  found  myself  looking  down  at  her  with 
almost  brutal  composure.  That  I  had  ever  been 
afraid  of  her  was  the  marvel!  For  I  was  young, 
and  she  was  elderly.  I  was  strong,  and  she  was 
weak.  Her  bare  arms  were  like  sticks,  but  mine 
were  round  and  supple,  and  I  could  feel  the  blood 
tingle  in  them  as  my  grip  tightened  on  the  wood- 
work. She  was  only  Anita  Serle,  the  well-known 
writer;  but  I  was  Jenny  Summer,  and  Kent  was 
needing  me. 

"  Jenny  —  you  will  be  sorry !  "  Her  eyes  and 
her  voice  were  one  threat.  Such  eyes !  Eyes 
whose  pupils  had  dilated  till  the  irids  were  mere 
threads  that  encircled  jealousy  itself  —  jealousy 
black  and  bitter  —  jealousy  that  had  stolen  upon 
us  as  the  fog  had  done,  obscuring,  soiling,  stifling 
191 


LEGEND 

friend  and  enemy  alike  —  jealousy  of  a  gift  and  a 
great  name,  of  a  dead  woman  and  a  living  man 
and  their  year  of  happiness  —  jealousy  beyond 
reason,  beyond  pity  —  jealousy  insatiable,  already 
seeking  out  fresh  food,  turning  deliberately,  venge- 
fully,  upon  Kent  and  upon  me. 

I  felt  sick.  I  had  never  dreamed  that  there 
could  be  such  feelings  in  the  world.  And  now  she 
was  going  to  Kent,  to  probe  and  lacerate  and  poi- 
son — 

"No!  "I  said. 

Actually  she  believed  that  she  could  pass  me ! 

I  still  held  fast  by  the  door-posts,  and  she  did 
not  use  her  hands.  We  were  silent  and  decorous, 
but  for  an  instant  our  bodies  fought.  She  was 
pressed  against  me,  panting  — 

"  No!  "  I  said. 

Then  she  fell  away,  and  without  another  word 
turned  and  went  back  into  the  other  room. 

I  saw  Miss  Howe  whisper  some  question.  There 
was  an  instant's  silence.  Then  her  answer  came  — 

"  Much  better  leave  him  alone.  Yes  —  rather 
shaken  —  a  heavy  man  like  that." 

It  was  defeat.  She  was  using  my  very  words, 
because,  for  all  her  fluency,  she  had  none  with  which 
to  cover  it. 

I  was  sorry.  I  felt  a  brute.  But  what  else 
could  I  have  done?  I  stood  a  moment  watching 
her  recover  herself.  Then  I  went  back  to  Kent. 

He  did  not  look  up,  but  he  moved  a  little  to  give 
192 


LEGEND 

me  room.  I  sat  down  beside  him.  We  were  shut 
away  between  the  wall  and  the  window,  in  the 
shadow,  out  of  sight  of  the  others.  It  was  very 
peaceful.  Now  and  then  I  looked  at  Kent,  but  he 
was  staring  before  him.  He  had  forgotten  all 
about  me  again,  I  knew.  But  I  was  content.  It 
made  me  happy  to  be  sitting  by  him.  My 
thoughts  hopped  about  like  birds  after  crumbs.  I 
remember  wondering  what  I  should  do  on  the  mor- 
row —  where  I  should  go  ?  That  Anita  would 
have  me  in  the  house  another  twenty-four  hours 
was  not  likely.  I  had  ten  pounds.  I  did  not  care. 
I  knew  that  I  ought  to  be  anxious,  but  I  could  not 
realize  the  need.  I  could  not  think  of  anything 
but  him ;  yet  I  was  afraid  to  speak  to  him.  He  sat 
so  still.  His  face  was  set  in  schooled  and  heavy 
ines.  There  came  a  stir  and  a  clash  of  voices  from 
the  other  room,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  it.  It 
was  only  the  end  of  a  poem.  In  a  little  it  had  set- 
tled down  again  into  the  same  monotonous  hum, 
but  for  a  moment  I  had  thought  that  it  was  the 
break-up,  and  after  that  I  had  no  peace.  It  had 
scared  me.  It  made  me  realize  that  I  had  only 
a  few  minutes  —  half  an  hour  at  most  —  and  that 
then  he  would  be  going  away  —  and  when  should  I 
see  him  again  ?  Never  —  maybe  never  !  He  had 
his  life  all  arranged.  He  didn't  even  know  my 
name.  I  felt  desperate.  I  couldn't  let  him  go.  I 
didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  only  knew  that  —  that 
I  couldn't  bear  it  if  he  went  away  from  me. 
193 


LEGEND 

It  was  then  that  he  moved  and  straightened  him- 
self in  his  chair  with  a  sigh,  that  heavy,  long- 
drawn  sigh  that  men  give  when  they  make  an  end. 
'  Work  or  play,  joy  or  grief,  it's  done  with.  And 

now ?  '  Such  a  sigh  as  you  never  hear  from 

women.  But  then  we  are  not  wise  at  ending 
things. 

I  thought  that  he  was  getting  up,  that  he  was 
going  then  and  there,  and  instinctively  I  hurried 
into  speech,  daring  anything  —  everything  —  his 
own  thoughts  of  me  —  rather  than  let  him  go. 

"  Yes  —  that's  over !  "  I  translated  softly. 

He  turned  with  such  a  stare  that  I  could  have 
smiled. 

"  I  meant  that.     How  did  you  know?  " 

"Why  shouldn't  I  know?"  I  did  smile  then. 
It  made  him  smile  back  at  me,  but  doubtfully,  un- 
willingly. 

"Can  you  read  thoughts  —  too ?"  The  last 
word  seemed  to  come  out  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Not  always.  Yours  I  can."  My  face  was 
burning.  But  I  could  have  spared  myself  the 
shame  that  made  it  burn,  for  he  did  not  under- 
stand. My  voice  said  nothing  to  him.  My  face 
showed  him  nothing.  He  was  thinking  about  him- 
self. But  he  leant  forward  in  that  way  he  has  — 
a  dear  way  —  of  liking  to  talk  to  you. 

"  Can  you  ?  I  never  can.  Only  when  I  paint. 
I  can  put  them  into  paint,  of  course.  But  not 

words.  She  said "  and  all  through  the  subse- 

194 


LEGEND 

quent  talk  he  avoided  the  name  — "  she  said  it  was 
laziness,  a  lazy  mind.  But  I  always  told  her  that 
that  was  her  fault.  I  —  we  —  her  people  —  were 
just  wool:  she  knitted  us  into  our  patterns.  She 
was  a  wonder.  You  know,  she  —  she  was  good  for 

one.     She  was  like  bread  —  bread  and  wine " 

His  voice  strained  and  flagged. 

I  nodded. 

"  Yes.     I  felt  that  too." 

He  glanced  sideways  at  me. 

"  Ah,  then  you  knew  her?  "  His  voice  (or  I 
imagined  it)  had  chilled.  It  began  to  say,  that 
faint  chill,  that  if  I  too  were  of  '  the  set,'  he  could 
not  be  at  ease.  But  I  would  not  give  him  time  to 
think  awry. 

"  No,  no !     Only  tonight.     But  I  do  know  her." 

"Tonight?" 

"  Tonight,"  I  said  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Then "  his  hand  tightened  on  the  chair, 

"  you  saw?     I  was  right?     You  did  see?  " 

"  I  saw  —  something,"  I  admitted. 

"  Some  one?  " 

I  nodded. 

His  face  lighted  up.  He  pulled  in  his  chair  to 
me. 

"  Her  hands  —  did  you  notice  her  hands  ?  I 
have  a  drawing  of  them  somewhere.  I'll  show  it 

to      you "     He      stopped     short :     Then  — 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  he  asked  me. 

"  Jenny.     Jenny  Summer." 
195 


LEGEND 

He  considered  that  fact  for  a  moment  and  put 
it  aside  again. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  see  it.  Anita  will  want  it  for 
that  damned  scrap-book  of  hers.  She'll  be  worry- 
ing at  me  —  they  all  will." 

"  You  won't  let  it  go?  "  I  said  quickly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No.  But  they  can't  understand  why.  They 
can't  understand  anything.  They  thought  I  was 
mad  just  now.  So  I  was,  for  that  matter.  To  see 
her  again,  you  know  —  to  see  her  again  — — " 

"  I  know,"  I  said. 

He  laughed  nervously. 

"  Hallucination,  of  course.  Thought  transfer- 
ence. What  you  please.  They'd  say  so.  Do  you 
think  so?  And  I'd  been  thinking  of  my  picture  of 
her.  Oh,  I  admit  it.  So  we  must  look  at  the  mat- 
ter in  the  light  of  common-sense." 

"  But  I  saw  her  too." 

His  eyes  softened,  and  his  voice. 

"Yes.  You  were  there.  That's  comfort. 
You  saw  her  too  —  standing  there  with  her  dear 
hands  full  of  cowslips " 

"  A  torch,"  I  said. 

"  Cowslips "    he    checked    on    the    word. 

"  What?  " 

"  She  was  carrying  a  candle,"  I  insisted.  "  It 
had  just  been  lighted.  She  was  holding  it  so  care- 
fully." 

We  stared  at  each  other. 
196 


LEGEND 

"You're  sure?" 

"  Sure." 

He  fell  back  wearily  in  his  chair. 

"What's  the  good  of  talking?  She's  dead. 
That's  the  end  of  it.  I  was  dreaming.  Of  course. 
But  when  you  said  that  you  saw,  for  a  moment  I 

believed What  does  it  matter?  What  does 

it  matter  anyway?  But  her  hands  were  full  of 
cowslips." 

I  turned  to  him  eagerly.  I  knew  what  to  say. 
It  was  as  if  the  words  were  being  whispered  to  me. 

"  That  was  your  Madala  Grey.  But  mine  — 
how  could  she  be  the  same?  Oh,  can't  you  see? 
We've  never  seen  the  real  Madala  Grey.  She  gave 
—  she  became  —  to  each  of  us  —  what  we  wanted 
most.  She  wrote  down  our  dreams.  She  was  our 
dreams.  Can't  you  see  what  she  meant  to  my 
cousin?  Anita  toils  and  slaves  for  her  little  bit 
of  greatness.  But  she  was  born  royal.  That's 
why  Anita  hates  her  so  —  hates  her  and  worships 
her.  Why,  she's  been  a  sort  of  star  to  you  all  — 
a  symbol  —  a  legend  — 

"  But  the  real  Madala  Grey  —  she  wasn't  like 
that.  She  was  just  a  girl.  She  was  hungry  all 
the  time.  She  was  wanting  her  human  life.  And 
he,  the  man  they  laugh  at,  *  the  thing  she  married,' 
he  did  love  that  real  Madala  Grey.  Why,  he 
didn't  even  know  of  the  legend.  Don't  you  see 
that  that  was  what  she  wanted?  She  could  take 
from  him  as  well  as  give.  Life  —  the  bread  and 
197 


LEGEND 

wine  —  they  shared  it.  Oh,  and  it's  him  I  pity 
now,  not  you.  Not  you,"  I  said  again,  while  my 
heart  ached  over  him.  "  You  —  can't  you  see 
what  she  showed  you?  Not  herself " 

"  What  then?  "  he  said  harshly. 

I  made  the  supreme  effort. 

"  But  what  —  a  woman  —  one  day  — would  be 
to  you." 

I  thought  the  silence  would  never  break. 

The  strange  courage  that  had  been  in  me  was 
suddenly  gone.  I  felt  weak  and  friendless.  I 
wanted  to  cry.  I  waited  and  waited  till  I  could 
bear  it  no  longer.  Then  I  lifted  my  eyes  des- 
perately, with  little  hope,  to  read  in  his  face  what 
the  end  should  be. 

I  found  him  looking  at  me  fixedly  —  at  me,  you 
understand,  not  through  me  to  a  subject  that  ab- 
sorbed him,  but  at  me  myself.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  seeing  me  for  the  first  time.  No  —  as  if  he 
recognized  me  at  last. 

Then  the  doubts  went,  and  the  shame  and  the 
loneliness.  It  made  me  so  utterly  happy,  that  look 
on  his  face.  I  felt  my  heart  beating  fast. 

He  said  then,  slowly  —  I  can  remember  the 
words,  the  tone  and  pitch  of  his  voice,  the  very 
shaping  of  his  mouth  as  he  said  it  — 

"  Do  you  know  —  it's  strange  —  you  remind 
me  of  her.  You  are  very  like  her.  You  are  very 
like  Madala  Grey." 

The  hunger  in  his  voice  hurt  me.  I  wanted  to 
198 


LEGEND 

put  my  arms  round  him  and  comfort  him.  I  might 
have  done  it,  for  I  knew  I  was  still  but  half  real 
to  him.  But  I  sat  still  —  only,  with  such  a  sense 
in  my  heart  of  a  trust  laid  upon  me,  of  an  in- 
heritance, of  a  widening  and  golden  future,  I  said 
to  him  — 

«  Yes.     I  know." 


THE   END 


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199 


A    000030510    2 


